Ginny Weasley and the War for Hogwarts
by ebjameston
Summary: We all know what Harry, Ron, and Hermione were doing during the Deathly Hallows. But what was happening at Hogwarts? The story of Ginny, Neville, Dumbledore's Army, Headmaster Snape, and the battle to survive the darkest year in the school's history.
1. The Wedding

**The Wedding**

"_The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming._"

The screaming started before the silver lynx had completely evaporated. I stood rooted to the spot. I couldn't breathe. The Ministry had fallen? What did that mean? Scrimgeour was dead? Who was the Minister of Magic, then? They were coming? Who? Death Eaters? Coming here, to the wedding?

A flash shot by overhead and something exploded. Bits of glass rained down and more people were screaming, screaming—curses and spells everywhere. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione wink away to somewhere, hopefully somewhere safe, but I still could barely move. A spell hit Bill and Fleur's wedding cake and it burst apart into dozens of charred, smoking pieces.

"Ginny!" Two voices chorused nearby. Fred and George appeared on either side of me, a familiar sandwiching between my two tallest brothers that somehow did nothing to make the situation less terrifying.

"Hold tight now, Gin," George said, wrapping an arm around my waist and gripping the side of my skirt. He'd apparently ripped the scab over his ear open; a steady stream of blood was trickling down onto the shoulder of his dress robes.

"Yeah, wouldn't want to get dropped off somewhere along the way, now, would you?" Fred added. He slung an arm across my shoulders, gripped forearms with George in front of me, and spun tightly on his heel.

After a second of feeling like I was being squeezed through a crack between floorboards, my feet hit the ground so hard that one of my heels snapped off.

"Steady on there," George said, grabbing my elbow as I stumbled. "Aw, Gin, what'd you do to yourself?"

"It's just my stupid high heel," I mumbled. "Damn thing is useless anyway."

"Not that, your face, dummy," Fred chimed in, peering over George's bloody shoulder at me with an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. "You must've caught part of it when someone hit the chandelier with that hex."

George grabbed my chin and started picking at my cheek; I slapped his hand away and touched my face gently. I felt like a cactus; a few shards of the glass chandelier had stuck in my skin just below my right eye. I gritted my teeth and let George pluck them out quickly, then swore colorfully under my breath as Fred cleaned and closed the cuts. My brothers looked at each other over my head, then said together, "C'mon, now, we'd best get going."

They both set off at a quick pace. I stumped along behind, running a bit to catch up, just now noticing and studying the rows of curiously similar houses that lined both sides of the middle class suburb we'd landed in. "Where are we?"

"Privet Drive, eh, George?" Fred responded. "Figured now that the protection here for

Harry's over, no one would expect him to come back."

"And where are we going?" I persisted. "What about Mum and Dad?" I suddenly stumbled to a stop, hands on my knees, trying to force air into my lungs. Fred and George noticed me not following anymore and jogged back, twin looks of concern written on their faces.

"Gin? What's up?"

"Mum!" I gasped, tears rushing to my eyes. I wiped them back with furious hands—furious that Bill and Fleur's wedding had been ruined, furious that I didn't know what had happened to the rest of my family, furious that I was standing in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood _crying_ like a useless little girl.

"Chin up, Gin," Fred said, dropping to one knee in front of me. "You don't think Mum and Dad made it this far by being easy to off, do you? I'm sure they got to each other and got out of there in time."

"Ginevra Molly Weasley!" George barked. Fred and I both looked up at him, me in astonishment and Fred in amusement. "You are not some flimsy, whining child who goes to pieces. You are a Weasley. You have six older brothers, you're a fantastic Chaser and a passable Seeker, you cast the nastiest Bat-Bogey Hex I've ever been on the receiving end of, and you have a very formidable left hook. Now stand up straight, get your wand out from wherever you're hiding it in that outfit, and pull yourself together!"

Fred stared. "Bloody hell, mate, is Mum possessing you?"

George flipped up the collar of his coat. "Nah, just something I've been working on. Now come on, you two, it doesn't do to stand around in the open like this. We need to find a safe place to work out a game plan."

I took a deep breath, hitched up the side of my dress, and pulled my wand free from the elastic band that had held it to my thigh during the wedding. My brothers' eyes nearly bugged out of their heads.

"You use a _thigh sheath_?"

"How _old_ are you?"

"Does Mum know about this?"

"Does _Harry_ know about this?"

Both twins wiggled their eyebrows suggestively. I politely declined to answer, pulled off both my heels, and slung them over a finger. "Are we going?"

* * *

More than an hour later, we stopped walking in front of a decent-looking pub. Fred and George, after one of those annoying-twin-eye-contact things, immediately headed for the doors.

"Wait, guys," I called out.

They turned around impatiently.

"What's the problem now, Gin?"

"There are girls inside. Muggle girls!"

"I could really use a beer—."

"—or four."

I waited for them to stop talking, then gestured down at my ripped party dress, my bare feet, my long red hair and my general lack of being of age. "I'd do it myself, but I don't imagine getting my Trace activated right now would be a good idea."

They looked at each other and chorused, "Well, what d'you expected us to do about it?"

I put a hand on my hip. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that neither of you managed to pinch a bit of Polyjuice Potion during that whole safely-moving-Harry job?"

George reached into an inside pocket, pulled out a small bottle, and winked. He handed the bottle to Fred and sauntered into the pub like he owned the place. A few minutes later, he reemerged with two short hairs in one hand and one long hair in the other, looking pleased with himself. They did a bit of fancy wandwork to make our party clothes look less out of place, and a few minutes later we walked into the pub dressed in normal Muggle clothing, looking distinctly un-Weasleyish.

It was just after midnight and the pub was comfortably full. We slid into a booth along the far side of the pub and pretended to look at menus while talking quietly.

"What do we do?" George asked point blank. He'd given himself long dark hair to cover the hole where his ear used to be and kept blowing the ends of it out of his face.

"Leaky Cauldron?" Fred suggested. His hair was now cropped so close to his head that he kept running his hand over it, like he was trying to make sure it was still there.

I shook my head. "Too dangerous. With the Ministry gone, we don't know who we'd find there. Sirius' place?"

"Too close to the Ministry," Fred countered. "Besides, what if Snape's gone and told all his Death Eater buddies about it?"

We sat in silence for a few minutes. "I have to pee," I announced, standing up abruptly. "Be back in a minute."

I walked through the pub by myself with more confidence than I felt, made it to the bathroom, shut myself inside a stall and took a few deep calming breaths. When I walked out of the stall again, I gave a start at the woman in the mirror opposite me. I knew that my hair was temporarily brown, but there was something about seeing the new shape of my face and color of my eyes that was thoroughly off-putting. I tied my hair back in a ponytail and headed back to my brothers' table, but before I could get there, a beefy forearm crossed my path and planted itself against the wall.

"Hey, sugar," said the owner of the beefy forearm, a beefy, poorly-bathed man who looked me up and down from behind sunglasses, despite the fact that it was night and we were inside.

"Hello," I said curtly, moving to get around him. He moved faster than me and blocked my path again, all muscles and beer breath and stubble.

"Aw, where ya goin', baby?" He said. "I just wanna talk."

"I'm not interested," I replied, again sidestepping. He moved again and I suddenly realized that he'd somehow gotten me backed up against a wall. I took a deep breath—seemed like all I was doing was taking deep breaths recently—and waited for his next move. Logically, I knew I should have been scared. This was a big guy, Fred and George were nowhere to be seen, and no one seemed to be paying attention to our little scene. Instead, I found myself getting angry. Who the hell _was _this guy and why did he think he had the right to get in _my_ way? My temper rose quickly, and I can't say I was entirely surprised when he grabbed my arm and a loud "BANG" issued from somewhere and he was thrown across the pub.

Silence.

"Aw, Gin, what the hell'd you go and do that for?" Fred complained, standing up.

"And we were having such a nice night," George chimed in.

Unbelievably, an owl swooped in an open window and deposited an envelope postmarked from the Ministry of Magic in my hands. "You have got to be kidding me," I muttered.

George grabbed my free hand and towed me out of the building quickly, Fred leading the way and a lot of shocked eyes following us.

"Ugh, I don't believe this!" I groaned, shaking the letter open and reading it while allowing George to pull me along at a jog. "'Dear Ms. Weasley, at 12:26 AM at Richard's Pub on 4th and Dukett, an Expulsive Spell was performed in your vicinity…please stay where you are until Ministry officials come to collect your wand'? Are they _mental_?"

"They'll be here any minute," Fred said, looking up at the sky nervously. "We need to decide where we're going."

"We don't have time to decide, we just need to pick somewhere and go," George argued.

"Well, that makes a bloody hell of a big difference—."

"I'm just trying to help!"

"Help by pointing out absolutely useless rubbish, is that it?"

"Guys!" I shouted. "Let's just go home."

They turned to look at me in surprise.

"Ginny, are you feeling all right?"

"You remember what happened at home just a few hours ago?"

"Things'll have settles down by now. Besides," I added quietly, "I have to pack. I'm due on the Hogwarts Express in a few days."

"Mum'll have a fit if she hears you talking about going back to that school," George said.

"With Snape as headmaster? There's no way."

"I'm just as stubborn as she is," I said. I closed my fist around the letter from the Ministry. "At any rate, I'm a pureblood and underage. It's the law."


	2. And Many Happy Returns

**...And Many Happy Returns**

We popped out on the dirt road leading up to the house and red stunner spells were whizzing past before things had stopped spinning. One hit Fred and he dropped like a stone; I threw up my wand and shouted "_Protego_!" without thinking.

"What the hell, Dad!" I shouted through the slightly blurry line of my protective spell, which shuddered under the continuous onslaught of stunners.

"I am not your father!" Dad roared, his face furious and bright red. He cast another stunner, which I let my spell deflect, then chucked my wand at his feet. I took advantage of the shocked silence that came from me surrendering my wand to explain.

"Polyjuice Potion," I said. I heard George mutter "_Ennervate_" behind me.

"Bloody brilliant welcome home, that," Fred cursed.

"Fred! George! Ginny!" Mum cried, pushing past Dad and trying to embrace all three of us at once. "I was so worried when I didn't know where you were, and then when you didn't come home, and oh, the poor, poor wedding was simply ruined!" She burst into tears for what I'm sure was the tenth time that night. She grabbed my hand and started towing me toward the house, but I wrenched my wrist out of her grasp.

"Where's everyone else?" I asked, looking around the yard. The light from the house was enough to see that not much was left from the wedding—the tent was trampled, the presents were scattered and muddy, and the few people left around looked completely miserable.

"Bill and Fleur went to Shell Cottage, that little place they're living in," explained Tonks, whose hair was a dull brown. Lupin came traipsing up out of the shadows and put his arm around her.

"I believe most of zee guests 'ave disapparated," announced Madame Delacour. Her tiny husband was bouncing anxiously next to her and holding Gabrielle's hand.

A curious tingling sensation took over most of my body, and I absently realized that the Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. A strand of hair that had blown into my face started changing back to red before my eyes; upon seeing that it really was me, Gabrielle ran over and threw herself into my arms. I wasn't quite sure when we'd become such good friends, but she was clearly upset, so I gently finger-combed her long blonde hair while the adults continued trying to account for the various people we were missing. I looked around the yard, taking in more details of the ruined evening.

* * *

The next few days were dreadfully quiet.

After the bustle of the wedding, we'd all gotten used to having lots of people around, having laughter and warmth and company in every room of the house. But now...the Delacours had returned to their home (much to the dismay of Gabrielle), as had Tonks and Lupin. Fred and George were splitting time between their flat in Diagon Alley and the Burrow, so they weren't around much. With just me, Mum, and Dad in the house—and the Spattergroit-ed "Ron" that didn't leave Ron's bedroom—the silence was unbearable. We tiptoed around, trying not to surprise each other, hoping for visitors from the Order, dreading visitors from the Ministry. Dad still had to go to work, and Mum and I would sit and stare at the family clock, praying that his hand would swing directly from "work" to "home" without any interruptions. Occasionally Mum and I would have a shouting match just to break the silence, but for the most part...nothing.

The night before the Hogwarts Express was due to leave, I walked down to the living room slowly, running through my arguments in my head. It was the law—that part was obvious. I could pass the Order information on what Snape was doing. I still needed to continue my education. I'd be less vulnerable at school, surrounded by my friends. I stopped outside the door, rocking back and forth on my heels, working up the courage to get into it with Mum.

"You might as well come in, Ginevra," Mum called. "It's not as though I didn't notice your trunk go missing from the closet."

I pushed through the door and settled into an armchair older than I was. _Ginevra_. Yikes, I was in trouble. "I have to go back, Mum."

She stared at me. "And why is that?"

"It—I—it's the law?" I tried lamely. She continued staring. I changed tactics.

"I could help the Order!" I said. "You know, take notes on what Snape is doing and try to recruit people to our side—."

"'Our side'!" Mum shrieked. "There is no _our side_! You are underage, you are not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!"

"But I am a member of Dumbledore's Army! And with Harry gone, leading them'll be up to Neville, and he's going to need my help," I countered, just realizing that last bit myself. "They need me there, Mum."

"But I need you _alive_," she said, tears sparkling in her eyes. She looked down and began knitting furiously.

"Oh, Mum, really," I said, crossing the room. I took the knitting out of her hands and sat down on the arm of her chair, curling into her like I used to when I was young. "I've got just as much chance staying alive at Hogwarts as I do if I stay here. Probably more."

"She's right, Molly," Dad said from the doorway. Mum and I both jumped; we hadn't heard him come in. "Hogwarts is still the safest place for an underage wizard—even if it's not the Hogwarts we used to know. And to be honest, the Order could use some inside information. Even knowing when Snape is at the castle and when he's abroad could be useful."

"But, but!" Mum spluttered, clearly on the verge of losing it entirely.

"We have to take chances, Mum," I said gently.

"I know that," she said. "But why do we have to take chances with _my _family?"

Neither Dad nor I really had anything to say to that. The three of us sat quietly for a few moments, Mum occasionally holding back a sob.

"Oh!" Dad exclaimed suddenly. "I'd nearly forgotten—one of my Patronuses got through to Ron!"

My heart gave a great leap in my chest. Just Ron? Were the others okay too?

Relief washed over Mum's face like a tidal wave. "Oh, thank Merlin. Where is he?"

"Grimmauld Place." A troubled look crossed Dad's face momentarily. "I suppose they must've found some way to ensure that Snape isn't lurking about."

My voice caught in my throat when I tried to speak. "H-H-Harry and Hermione? They're okay too, right?"

Dad looked at me kindly, concern in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Ginny, I don't know. I can only send the message to one person."

"I'm sure they're fine, too," Mum said, suddenly nudging me off her lap and standing up. News that Ron was fine seemed to have revitalized her; she bustled off toward the kitchen, calling back over her shoulder, "Roast beef all right for the train, Ginny?"

It took me a second to realize that she was talking about the Hogwarts Express. I grinned at Dad, swallowed hard to push all my feelings for Harry down deep under some internal rock, and followed Mum to the kitchen to try to stop her from making me several dozen sandwiches.

* * *

September first dawned bright and chilly over King's Cross Station. Despite everything that had happened, the scene was pretty much the same as always—First Years looking scared and tiny, mothers crying and trying to remember if they'd packed everything, older students anxious to get on the train and get to school.

"I've got to get going, Ginny," Dad said after we'd safely stowed my trunk. He checked his watch. "There's an Investigation underway at the Ministry—not that there isn't always an Investigation underway at the Ministry, of course. But Ginny, listen: try not to be _too_ much of a Weasley?"

I looked up at him, alarmed. "What does that mean?"

"You know perfectly well what I mean." He nodded over my shoulder to someone and talked quickly, without making eye contact. "Bill, Charlie, P-Fred, George, they all have a bit of knack for putting just the right toe out of line to make their respective authority figures angry without actually getting in trouble. I don't imagine that they'll be giving you a lot of wiggle room on the rules this year, and with Ron out—."

"Out sick with Spattergroit," I interrupted loudly. Dad looked startled.

"What? Oh, yes, of course, Spaggertroit, it just...it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world if you had a quiet year. Kept all your toes _behind _the line."

I looked up at him intensely. "Did Mum put you up to this?"

He sighed. "She only worries."

"I know," I said, hugging him tightly and ducking just a little when he kissed the top of my head. "I'll see you at Christmas?"

"Of course, dear."

No sooner had Dad left my side than a familiar voice said "Well, well, well, fancy meeting you here."

"Meg!" I practically shrieked, turning and throwing my arms around one of my closest friends, Meg Dantley. We linked arms and walked the length of the train, telling stories of the summer and saying hello to everyone we knew.

"I was worried you might not be coming back," I said quietly into her ear. Meg's older sister, Marian, had married a Muggle a little over a year ago, and they were rumored to be high on the list of families being interrogated by the Ministry.

"I thought so, too," Meg whispered back. "But Marian and Trent fled the country, didn't you hear? They made a big stink about how much they hated the Dantley family because we apparently disapproved of Trent—all made up, of course, Trent's an absolute dear—but it was enough to get us back in good graces at the Ministry, at least for a little while."

"Oi! Ginny! Meg!" A tall boy in dark robes jogged across the platform toward us. We squinted to make out who he was.

"That can't be Neville Longbottom, can it?" Meg asked.

Neville came to a halt in front of us, breathing lightly. He'd grown to be at least a head taller than me, lost weight, cut his hair short, and in general was completely unrecognizable as the pudgy kid who'd followed Harry and Ron around the past few years. A flash of silver glinted off his chest.

"Neville, are you a—a prefect?" I asked incredulously, touching the outline of his badge.

He blushed. "Yeah, I suppose I am. It's just me and Seamus left from my year—I reckon you heard about Dean?—and I guess Snape thinks I'm the least competent of the two. At any rate, Meg, we're having a prefects' meeting up near the front of the train. Blaise Zabini's been made Head Boy and that absolute twit Pansy Parkinson's Head Girl, they want to have a 'chat' with everyone about prefect duties or some bollux like that."

Meg and I both stared. Neville flushed again. "What's with the staring?"

"Neville, you..." I began.

"Who _are_ you?" Meg burst in.

Neville chuckled and self-consciously touched a scab below his chin. "I don't really know. Interesting summer, I'll tell you about it some other time. Now come on, Meg, before Blaise starts taking points from Gryffindor before we're even on the train. Save us seats, Gin?" He pulled me into a quick hug, then he and Meg headed off, Meg still berating him about his new appearance. I clutched at whatever he'd pressed into my hand when he hugged me, wondering if I was stupid enough to look at it now or patient enough to wait for a private place. Curiosity won out and I stared at the Galleon in my palm, wondering why on earth Neville was giving me money, when it suddenly turned warm in my hand and the words "_Long live the DA!" _appeared across the bottom in tiny, flame-red writing. I grinned and tucked the coin away in my pocket.

* * *

The train ride was uneventful. Luna found Meg, Neville, and I about halfway to Hogwarts and we officially let Meg in on some of the secrets of Dumbledore's Army; she'd been too scared to actually join before, but it seemed like the fact that her sister had had to flee the country just because the man she fell in love with was a Muggle had been the final straw. We plotted getting the DA up and functioning again, but couldn't make any real plans. The absences in the room—Ron, Hermione, _Harry_—were practically crippling. It also hadn't escaped anyone's notice that Draco Malfoy wasn't on the train.

"He's got to officially be a Death Eater, then," Meg said firmly.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Luna trilled. "Perhaps he just came down with an infestation of Wee Crithrops! It can happen almost overnight, you know."

"Yeah, maybe," I said. "But if he—H-Harry—saw what he thinks he saw last year, then I seriously doubt it's Crithrops, Luna."

The train slowed to a stop. Hagrid stood at the edge of the lake, bellowing for new students. Thestral-drawn carriages waited for the rest of us. It was almost like nothing had changed. We rode up to the castle in silence, everyone occupied with their own thoughts. As hard as I tried to steer my mind away from the topic, I couldn't help thinking that I'd never knowingly been inside Hogwarts without Harry being there too, and it somehow didn't feel as safe.

We clambered unceremoniously out of the carriage and stood en masse in front of the great double doors. When the last student carriage had arrived, the doors creaked open slowly, revealing a back-lit figure.

"Bloody git," Neville, Meg and I all chorused under our breath.

"Welcome back to Hogwarts," said the figure. "I am your new Headmaster, Severus Snape."

**author's note: even a review that says "hey, this doesn't entirely suck, wanna keep writing?" is a nice review to get :)**


	3. The Sorting That Wasn't

**Chapter Three: The Sorting That Wasn't **

"Some of them look awfully old, don't you think?" I whispered as McGonagall marched the line of new students down the center of Great Hall. Meg and I sat about midway down the Gryffindor table which, like the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, seemed considerably emptier than usual.

"Well, it's not just the usual batch of First Years, is it?" Meg whispered back. "With the new laws, every underage wizard who lives in the UK has to come to Hogwarts. Everyone who was homeschooled or whose parents wanted them to go to Durmstrang or Beauxbatons or somewhere is here now. I imagine they have to be sorted as well."

As I watched the new students shuffle themselves about, nervously fixing their hair and whispering, I couldn't help thinking back to my own sorting. Ten years old, terrified that I'd be the only one in my family not in Gryffindor, half hoping that I'd be a Ravenclaw or even a Hufflepuff to prove that I wasn't just another Weasley, completely ready to fight a troll or jinx a Fifth Year or whatever intimidating ritual Fred and George had planted in my head that week. A particularly tiny blonde girl, who was looking anxiously around the room like someone might have life-saving advice for her, caught my eye and I winked. She flashed a startled half-smile, then went back to twitchily waiting for something to happen.

McGonagall fetched the Sorting Hat and its stool and placed them front and center. "You will come forward when called," she announced. "Sit on the stool, and I will place the Sorting Hat upon your head so that you may be sorted." She stepped slightly back and fell silent as the Hat opened the rip near its brim and began to sing.

"_For many years, I've sorted all. _

_ The good, the bad, the short and tall. _

_ And every year, as I sing this song, _

_ I know that my sorting will ne'er be wrong._

_ But times have changed, and now, I fear_

_ A reckoning is drawing near. _

_ Lines that divide, you have so many_

_ This year, I pledge to not add any. _

_ Though it's been my duty, I now report_

_ That this year's class, I shall not sort._

_I hope that things may change in time, _

_But for now, I respectfully resign." _

The Hat closed and silence fell over Great Hall. Snape rushed down from the Head Table and appeared to have a heated discussion with the Sorting Hat, which responded to his angry hisses with calm words too quiet to hear. Whispers were starting around the room.

"It's not going to sort them?"

"Is it allowed to do that?"

"Will they all just be sent home?"

"Silence!" Snape called over the rising chaos. "Minerva, take care of this wretched excuse for a hat before I have it destroyed. I..." he trailed off and seemed to stare through the enchanted ceiling, as if looking for guidance. I snorted quietly—certainly Severus Snape respected no god. McGonagall stowed the Hat and stool somewhere with a flick of her wand; the entire school sat and watched Snape think.

"The House Heads and ghosts will meet in council tonight and decide where to place each new addition to our school," Snape announced after a moment, looking up and down his Head Table as he spoke. Disapproval was written clearly on McGonagall's face. Flitwick, Hagrid, and several of the other teachers also looked unhappy with the decision, but the unfamiliar faces mixed in with the teachers were positively grinning with glee. Snape flicked his wand several times, muttered something, and all of the House tables suddenly compressed width-wise. The tables and benches we were sitting on rose a few centimeters into the air and drifted towards the outside of the room; a fifth, shorter table appeared in the resultant gap in the middle of the hall. "Until placement, new students may sit at the center table," Snape explained. "Let the feast begin."

* * *

When the clinking and chatter had diminished to a dull roar, Snape stood and called once again for attention.

"The previous headmaster of this establishment," Snape began, "held a great many beginning-of-term traditions. He took this time to introduce new teachers, outline the school rules, and, of course, sing the school song." The revulsion in Snape's voice could not have been more clear if a neon sign reading "I HATED DUMBLEDORE" had blazed above his head. "I shall indulge none of this. You shall meet new teachers as is pertinent to your class schedule, I see no need for foolish songs of school pride, and the school rules..." Snape trailed off, a malicious shadow of a smile flitting across his face. When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet. "School handbooks will be distributed by prefects later this evening, and I strongly advise that all students commit the rules therein to memory. We certainly do not want any..._troublemaking_."

I slowly became aware of a single hand that was raised in the air above the heads of the students. It took me even longer for me to realize that the hand was _mine._ I'd been running through all the derisive things I'd love to say in my head, but hadn't truly intended to disturb Snape's thinly veiled threats. His dark eyes flashed in my direction. "Yes, Ms. Weasley?" He snapped.

I stood. Dozens of comments were swirling around in my head. I could accuse him of killing Dumbledore, I could ask what it was like to be You-Know-Who's right hand man, I could, I could, I could...the image of my mother, frantically knitting and crying and watching my hand on the family clock, popped into my mind, echoed by my dad's voice asking me not to be too much of a Weasley. I was dimly aware that Meg was tugging frantically at my other arm, trying to get me to sit down. I bit my tongue, terribly aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes on me, and asked innocently, "Sir, what about Quidditch?"

A look of surprise crossed his face for the briefest of a second. "Quidditch?"

"The House league, sir. I was made captain last year and need to know if I should schedule tryouts."

Hundreds of eyes expectantly turned to Snape. He pondered my question momentarily, then said, "I shall have to think on the subject. The announcement will be made in the morning."

I continued staring at him, fighting down my extremely Weasley-ish urge to call him the worst name I knew, until Meg poked me sharply in the back of the knee. "Thank you, sir," I said through gritted teeth, and let my shaking legs collapse me back onto the bench.

* * *

A fire blazed merrily in the Gryffindor common room as we assembled later that night to receive our new school handbooks. McGonagall handed them to Neville through the portrait hole and whispered something that made him smile. She disappeared from sight and let the Fat Lady swing back into place; Neville walked toward the other prefects and divided the stack of handbooks among them. He, Meg, Parvati Patil (who'd replaced Hermione as the Seventh Year girl prefect), Colin Creevy, and the two new prefects from the year below me whom I barely knew, Ryan Fuentes and Annie Markel, walked around the small circle of Gryffindors, handing them out.

"We don't know any more about these than you do," Neville said as he passed me a handbook, "but you heard Snape. _Headmaster_ Snape, sorry. We should probably learn these soon."

"So we know exactly how many school rules we're violating?" I asked brightly.

Neville gave me a slightly exasperated look as Ryan cracked up.

"Guys," Neville said slowly, obviously planning his words carefully, "I think we should maybe play along. For a little bit, at least."

Jimmy Peakes, who was standing next to me, snorted derisively, Ryan and Seamus swore in unison, and even Annie looked discontent. My jaw almost hit the floor—what happened to _Long live the DA_?

"I mean it!" Neville protested. "A lot of this have changed. We don't know what the stakes are, we don't know where they'll stop. _If_ they'll stop. We need to be careful until we know the game."

Furiously, I looked down at the stupid little pamphlet in my hands. _Neville_ was wimping out on me. I'd counted on him to lead Dumbledore's Army, and now...I flipped angrily through the book, accidentally tear the bottom of a page. I pieced it back together, read the words "Educational Decree," and realized that the page was pink.

"Do you know what this is, Neville?" I asked quietly, flipping to the title page to confirm my suspicions. "The _Helpful Hogwarts Handbook_? It's an extended collection of the Educational Decrees passed by Umbridge."

Neville's eyebrows furrowed, and several angry noises were heard from the circle. Ryan flipped to a random page and read aloud: "Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four, All student organizations, societies, teams, groups, and clubs are henceforth disbanded...Educational Decree Number Forty-Three, Any school ghost suspected of fraternizing with a non-school entity will be subject to interrogation...bloody hell, she's got a hundred of these..."

Most of us stayed in the common room for a while, thumbing through our handbooks and reading the particularly outrageous ones out loud. No one really wanted to go to their rooms; almost every year was down a few students and—although the rooms magically shrunk to accommodate the lesser number of beds—the change was still terribly obvious.

Around midnight, Meg stood up from where she'd been flipping through a Muggle magazine near the fireplace and walked toward the door.

"Meg?" I asked. "Where're you going?"

She shushed me and held up a hand, cocking her head toward the door. Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing and listened to an argument that seemed to be taking place outside our common room.

"But I don't _know_ the password!" A girl was insisting.

"If you don't know the password, I can't let you in," the Fat Lady said, sounding like she was tired of repeating yourself.

"No one _told_ me the password," the girl protested. "The teachers only just put me in Gryffindor and told me to come up here and that someone would let me in!"

"If the teachers did not see fit to tell you the password—."

The Fat Lady was interrupted by an impressive string of swearwords from the girl. Meg snorted back laughter and pushed the door open, helping a girl with waist-length, shiny blonde hair climb through the hole.

"Thanks," the girl said exhaustedly, swinging her hair back out of her face. "I thought I'd be out there all night. I'm Bianca Delacour, Fourth Year—this is Gryffindor, isn't it?"

"Yeah, welcome," Jimmy Peakes said, walking toward her quickly with his hand outstretched, eyeing her long hair and slim waist.

"Delacour?" I interrupted. "Any chance you're related to Fleur and Gabrielle?"

"Of course!" She laughed. "My _charmant_ French cousins. How do you..." she trailed off and gave me a critical once-over, settling on the red hair. "You can't be Ginny Weasley?"

"Yeah!" I exclaimed, a little shocked at the recognition but pleased at the coincidence. "How'd you guess?"

"Well, Gabry won't shut up about you, will she?" Bridget laughed. "They came to stay with us for a while after the wedding so Gabry and I could see each other before I started here—I used to go to Beauxbatons, but with the new laws and everything..." she shrugged.

"Does anyone feel like explaining?" Meg chimed in. "Some of us don't understand."

"Oh!" Bridget and I said at the same time, then looked at each other and laughed.

"My brother and her cousin," I began.

"My cousin and her brother," Bridget explained simultaneously. We laughed again.

"Got married," we ended together.

"Does this make us cousins?" Bridget asked. "In some distant sort of way?"

I laughed again. "I suppose so."

Bridget suddenly shrieked and lunged for the magazine in Meg's hand. "How the _hell_ did you get a copy of this month's _Seventeen_ in here?" she asked. "This is the one with the pictures of Jake Gyllenhall at the gym, right?"

Bridget and Meg dissolved into squeals of joy over finding kindred spirits in one another, quickly sitting in an armchair together and discussing the finer points of this Jake guy's body. Jimmy lurked behind the armchair, trying to insert himself in the conversation. I smiled to myself and went back to studying the _Handbook_, happy with the newest addition to Gryffindor. Maybe Meg wouldn't spend as much time trying to persuade me to let her hang pictures of shirtless Muggle actors in our room now that she had someone to talk to about it.

* * *

In the morning, we found lists of the new students in each House posted next to the giant hourglasses that tracked the House points. In addition to nine First Years and Bianca, Gryffindor had gained a Second Year boy, another Fourth Year girl, and a Seventh Year boy. Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff had gotten similar numbers of students, but Slytherin…

"_Nineteen_ First Years!" Meg hissed in my ear as we walked toward Great Hall. "Slytherin has _nineteen _ First Years and _eight_ of the transfer students."

"I know, Meg, I read the lists too." I sat at the Gryffindor table, restored to its normal width, and looked curiously up and down its length. The First Years were easy to pick out, clustered around one end of the table nervously studying their class schedules, picking at their Gryffindor-colored ties. Neville dropped onto the bench next to me and put his forehead on the table, moaning something into his hands.

"Something wrong?" I asked, moving a bit of his hair out of a bowl of porridge.

Neville picked his head up and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. "There's a new Gryffindor Seventh Year boy. Hi, Bianca, welcome to Hogwarts."

"Thanks!" Bianca said cheerfully. "It's a lovely day, don't you think?"

Seamus Finnegan seated himself across the table from us, looking just as disheveled as Neville. "He showed up in our dorm 'round three in the morning. 'Course, it being just me and Nev now with Ron, Harry, and Dean gone, we weren't exactly expectin' anyone. We both threw a couple curses 'fore we realized no one was tryin' to off us."

"McGonagall pulled us out of bed and gave us a proper dressing down about not welcoming new students," Neville continued. "At three in the bloody morning."

"What's the guy like?" Meg asked. I could already see a familiar light in her eyes—Meg was one of my best friends, but she was also going through a very boy-centric phase.

"Seems decent enough," Seamus said through a mouthful of pumpkin juice. "Name's Peter Callahan. His parents sent him to some school in the States for the past six years. Didn't seem to particularly mind nearly gettin' his legs cursed off."

"Is he tall?" Bianca asked, and she and Meg dissolved into giggles for the umpteenth time that morning.

"Class schedules," Parvati announced, walking down our table with a small stack of papers and holding a cardboard box, looking as usual like an exotic goddess. "I'm to remind you all that tardiness is now a demerit-earning offense."

The entire table chorused a groan. One of the hidden joys of the _Handbook_ was the explanation of a new, demerit-based disciplinary system. Throughout the week, you accumulated demerits every time you lost points for your House. At the end of the week, there were levels of punishment according to how many demerits you'd racked up.

"What's in the box, Parvati?"

"Another gift from Umbridge," she sighed, reaching inside the box and handing each of us a small, ruby-filled hourglass. "She's been reinstated as Hogwarts High Inquisitor, you know."

"We know," Neville, Seamus, and I said in unison.

"This is how they're tracking our demerits," Parvati explained. "They're specific to each of us, see on the base?"

Sure enough, around the base of my little hourglass the words "Ginevra Molly Weasley, Sixth Year Gryffindor" could be read in tiny gold letters.

"Look on the other side," Parvati prompted.

"Current standing: 50 demerits," I read out loud. "Fifty! What did I possibly do in the past night to get fifty demerits?"

"That's where everyone is starting," she explained. "Fifty for, fifty against. If you earn a house point, you are cleared of a demerit."

"How quickly do you think I can rack up all one hundred?" Seamus asked darkly.

"Seamussssss," Neville groaned. "We _talked _about this."

"_You _talked," Seamus corrected.

Parvati checked her watch. "You'd better get going, Ginny, Meg," she cautioned. "Sixth Years have got Potions first thing."

"Slughorn," I muttered. "Just what I need first thing in the morning. "C'mon, Meg."

"I don't suppose there's been some misprint about what we have at 1 o'clock, do you?" Meg asked as we headed out of Great Hall. I glanced down at my schedule, which I'd pretty much ignored, scanning until I came across "_Introduction to the Dark Arts, Prof. Amycus Carrow_."

I safely tucked my schedule away between two books and slid them into my bag, clutching the hourglass in my hand tightly. "No, Meg. I don't think there's been any mistake at all."

**author's note: sorry about the long delay! i'm in the last few weeks of my semester and schoolwork controls my life. i'll try to be better. a million thank yous to gigiseesdenver for being my first reviewer :)**

**InkWeaverabc: i'm so happy you like it so far! re: george's ear, i guess i assumed that because it was cursed off by dark magic, it wouldn't grow back despite the polyjuice potion. thoughts? good catch either way! **

**mon-ing myrtle: i'm glad Meg's growing on you. i figured ginny had to have some female friends somewhere along the line, and having her be kind of apathetic/timid beforehand seemed to work as an explanation. thanks for the review :)**


	4. The New Regime

**The New Regime**

It turned out that all four Houses had been combined for Sixth Year Potions; there weren't many of us left at the school to begin with and even fewer had decided to continue with the class now that we were done with O.W.L.S. and onto our N.E.W.T.S. Slughorn set us to work brewing a relatively simple potion just to "remind our minds of the joyous pleasure of potion-making," as he called it, and spent the rest of the class period lugging himself around the room, sticking his nose into people's cauldrons and asking probing questions about their families.

Meg and I—joined by Luna, who was somehow better at Potions than either of us, despite her insistence that potions only worked because invisible Dinklebees added their magic—walked out of the dungeons an hour and a half later smelling strongly of burned roots, but otherwise happy with how class had gone.

We split up at a moving staircase; I was headed to Transfiguration, Meg to Divination, and Luna to Arthimancy, of all things. I bumped into Parvati halfway to McGonagall's classroom and we walked there together, happily yet apprehensively discussing the upcoming year with McGonagall. Like Potions, Transfiguration lessons had been combined because our classes were so small; every Gryffindor who had successfully passed their Transfiguration O.W.L. was in the same class. This meant an eight-person class: Me, Neville, Parvati, Lucas Callahan (the transfer), and four other students from my year.

"To those of you who joining us this year, welcome to N.E.W.T. –level Transfiguration," McGonagall announced to start the lesson. "Mr. Longbottom, Ms. Patil, I am pleased to have both of you in my classroom again. Everyone please place all belongings save your wand in the cupboard along the back wall and we will begin."

In the bustle that followed this direction while we moved our books and bags and Professor McGonagall levitated desks into stacks against the wall, I stumbled over something and fell into someone's broad, hard chest.

"Sorry," I said, swinging my hair back out of my face and looking up at one of the more attractive young wizards I'd ever met. Lucas Callahan, the new Seventh Year.

"No problem," he said in a surprisingly deep voice. "Girls fall for me all the time."

I rolled my eyes, but before I could come up with a witty response, McGonagall was talking again. "The Transfiguration N.E.W.T. is designed to test your comprehensive knowledge of the subject," she said. "While the written portion will ask about specific spells, the practical portion will involve combination and innovation. I could teach you only the spells that most commonly come up on the exam, but frankly that would leave major gaps in your education in addition to not being a foolproof strategy. We will therefore spend the majority of this year working up to a single, very difficult act of magic that will require mastery of dozens of smaller spells as well as all the main concepts of transfiguration. By the end of this year, if you study hard and work to the best of your ability, you will be able to transform yourself into an animal at will. Yes, you heard correctly. This year will be dedicated on turning each of you into a full Animagus. Question, Ms. Afferton?"

"Sorry, Professor," Julia Afferton, the only other female Gryffindor Sixth Year, said. "But isn't that terribly dangerous? Can't you get permanently stuck in animal form, or somewhere in between?"

"All advanced magic is dangerous, Ms. Afferton," McGonagall announced coolly, sweeping back to her desk and picking up a small box. "But yes, this task does present a considerable amount of peril, more than I can monitor by myself. As such, you will be working in assigned pairs for the duration of the semester. You are never to study or practice without your partner, and once you begin successfully transforming yourselves, you are never to be alone in animal form. Pairings are as follows: Patil and Longbottom, Creevy and Miner, Locke and Affterton, Weasley and Callahan. One from each pair, come get a mouse and begin working on turning it into a frog."

Lucas turned and smiled at me, all bright teeth, tan skin, deep brown eyes and light brown hair so soft-looking that I had to consciously restrain myself from touching it. "I'll grab the mouse," he said. "You get a corner of the room?"

He whisked away and was back with a small white fieldmouse in his hand before I had recovered enough to move. There was something about being so close to someone _this_ attractive that was making my head a little fuzzy, a feeling that I usually attributed to Harry. _Harry_. A wrenching pain shot through my heart and I forced myself to think about other things—like how we were going to turn this mouse into a bonafide frog. The classroom quickly filled with flashes of light, small explosions, and laughter as the eight of us tried every trick we could think of; the atmosphere thankfully left no time for conversation. By the end of the lesson, only Neville and Parvati had anything truly resembling a frog. Colin Creevy and Edward Miner had somehow managed to shrink their mouse down to the size of a cricket and were chasing it around a bookshelf; Julia and Brighton Locke had some sort of white-furred iguana. Lucas and I handed over a green-skinned mouse with over-developed back legs.

"Well," McGonagall said, catching me and Lucas' mouse-frog as it made a break for the door. "We certainly have work to do, but this is a promising beginning. I won't assign you written homework, but I do expect you to spend a considerable amount of time with your partner outside the hours of these lessons. Becoming an Animagus can play funny tricks on the mind; you need to know your partner well enough that you'll be able to tell if anything about his or her behavior changes. Class dismissed for now; come back on Wednesday with a new spell to try on your mouse."

I turned to Lucas to ask when he wanted to get together, but he was already halfway out the door. I watched him walk out, perplexed—had I said something to offend him?—and Parvati came to stand next to me.

"I'd kill for a trade," she said under her breath. "Did you see his eyes? I could just drown in them."

"Yeah," I responded, trying to sound offhand about the whole thing. "Too bad he's just as awful at Transfiguration as I am."

"Ms. Weasley!" McGonagall called from the front.. "A word, please."

I sighed. Talking to Professor McGonagall one-on-one was almost guaranteed not to be enjoyable. I tucked my wand away and waved unhappily to Parvati; I was just turning around to walk to McGonagall's desk when she whisked past me out into the hall; I had to jog to keep up.

"Professor?"

"When we get to my office, Ms. Weasley," she replied without looking at me.

I bit back the question on my tongue and followed her silently, dodging through a group of Hufflepuff Third Years who were being pelted with bits of rubbish by Peeves. McGonagall unlocked her office with a whispered password, let me inside, and relocked the door behind us.

"Now, Ms. Weasley," McGonagall began, sitting at her desk and conjuring a chair for me. "I am certain that you are familiar with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four."

"Student groups, clubs, teams, illegal, got it," I said, dropping into the chair.

"Yes. I am also certain that the group affectionately referred to as the D.A. does not intend to abide by that decree."

_Not if Neville gets his way_, I thought to myself. Outwardly, I focused on keeping my face passive and trying not to run through all the memories I had of Harry leading D.A. meetings.

"I do not know your plans," McGonagall continued in a slightly less formal tone. "But I urge you to exercise caution, restraint, and tact."

"Why does _everyone_ think I'm running around trying to get in as much trouble as possible?" I exclaimed, taken aback at the fervor in my voice. "You, my dad, _Neville_—."

"Mr. Longbottom is, I'm sure, merely trying to ensure that you do not come to harm," McGonagall chided me. "As for your father, I imagine he has enough to worry about with Ronald so ill." Her eyes twinkled just a bit. "Your entire family is constantly in danger, Ms. Weasley, marked as they are as opponents of You-Know-Who. I fear that your Pureblood status will not protect them for much longer; I'm sure your father recognizes this and simply wishes to know that _one_ of his children is out of harm's way. As for myself..." she trailed off, looking at something over my shoulder.

"Professor?" I prompted quietly after a few minutes of silence. She started and looked at me, her eyes just a tad misty.

"Albus Dumbledore was one of my dearest friends," she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. "He ran this school for many years and considered the safety of his pupils to be his greatest responsibility. No matter who is in charge of this school, Ms. Weasley, remember that there is always at least one person watching over you. Again, I strongly advise caution, restraint, and tact. You may go."

I stood up slowly, fighting between being stunned by the emotions _Minerva McGonagall_ had just shown and being furious at being chastised _again _for something I hadn't even done yet. I had halfway opened my mouth when I thought better of it and walked out the door.

* * *

Forty-five minutes and an unusually quiet lunch later, Meg and I sat side by side in Introduction to the Dark Arts class, watching Amycus Carrow prepare for the lesson. He was tall, thin, dirty, and something that smacked of Severus Snape dominated the way he moved. I was distinctly uncomfortable to be in the same room as him.

"Welcome to the Dark Arts," he said, running a long finger down a piece of paper on his desk. His voice was already sending chills down my spine—a mixture of oily sweetness like Umbridge, thinly veiled distain like Snape, and overwhelming condescension that had me seriously considering running out the room. "You've all clearly noticed that this isn't a normal class setup. None of you know anything about the Dark Arts, so everyone is starting at the same point. The beginning. This is an introductory course, but we'll move much faster than the younger years."

To distract myself from watching him I looked furtively around the room. As best I could figure out, this class period was for Fifth Year Ravenclaws, Sixth Year Gryffindors, and what seemed to be Seventh Year Slytherins. I made eye contact with Daphne Greengrass, a Seventh Year Slytherin I'd had a markedly unpleasant relationship with ever since informing her that even a Muggle would be able to tell that she wasn't a natural blonde four years ago. She glared and mouthed something I couldn't make out.

Suddenly, Carrow was right in front of my desk, all unnaturally long limbs and uneven hair and scars. "A point from Gryffindor, Weasley," he said lightly. "Pay attention."

"Sorry, sir," I said quickly, noting a flash of movement at the edge of my desk as a small ruby fell to the bottom of my hourglass. Carrow continued to watch me for just a second longer than was necessary, sending a shiver to the base of my spine, then moved back to the front of the room.

"Every class will start with theory," he said, scratching the word "theory" on the board in cramped, nearly illegible writing, "and then move into practice. What are the Dark Arts?"

A series of alternately vague and pointed questions about the history of the Dark Arts later, Daphne had earned five points for Slytherin, I'd lost six more—which took me to 57 demerits— and Meg was giving a running narration of the class under her breath. Every time a stifled giggle escaped between my fingers as I scribbled notes, that insipid Parkinson girl glared at me over her shoulder.

At long last, Carrow placed a check mark next to "theory" on the board and told everyone to stand up.

"We will now move into the practice portion of this lesson," he announced as we formed one large circle. He paced the inside perimeter, looking each of us in the eye as he posed his next question. "There are three curses that the previous Ministry deemed 'Unforgivable.' Who can tell me one of them?"

I had a strong flashback to lesson with Mad-Eye Moody that had begun similarly three years ago and a small wave of sadness hit me. Poor Mad-Eye.

"Imperius, correct," Carrow said, jolting me back into the classroom. "A point for Slytherin, Blaise."

Blaise, across the circle from me, smiled his arrogant little smirk that never failed to make me want to slap him.

"The Imperius Curse," Carrow continued. "Makes other people do whatever you want them to do. Good for a variety of situations." He was directly in front of me as he said this, and the up-and-down look he gave me made my skin crawl. "Who else knows an Unforgivable?"

One of the Ravenclaws—Orla, I think—raised her hand. "The Killing Curse."

"Ah yes, a personal favorite of our Lord," Carrow said, sweeping on in his stalking. "A point for Ravenclaw, Ms. Quirke. And the final Unforgivable? Ms. Weasley?"

I looked up sharply, surprised at the singling out. "What?"

"A point from Gryffindor, Weasley," Carrow sighed. "You really must pay attention."

"I was paying attention!" I protested.

"A point from Gryffindor, Weasley," he repeated. "Do not talk back to a professor."

I bit my tongue so hard that I tasted blood. Fifty-nine demerits. Neville was going to kill me.

"The third Unforgivable, Weasley," Carrow prompted.

"Cruciatus," I spat.

"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" He said quietly. He'd circled back to me and raised a hand, almost as if he meant to touch my face, then seemed to abruptly change his mind and pull away. "I would give you a point back, truly I would, but you still have many lessons to learn."

I glared, wondering if I could make him catch fire if I stared hard enough.

"Now, Ms. Weasley," Carrow said, resuming his stroll. "If you'd be so kind as to demonstrate the Cruciatus Curse for the class. Mr. Crabbe should make a good candidate."

Crabbe took a few steps into the circle and looked at me stupidly, apparently waiting. I glanced at Carrow's face, waiting for the punchline, but he just continued to watch me expectantly.

"What?" I practically choked when I realized that he was serioud. "No, I'm not doing that."

"Oh come now," he said. "It's the first subject of the school year, and we want to set things off on the right foot, do we not?"

"I'm _not_ doing it," I repeated between clenched teeth. I was dimly aware of everyone in the room staring back and forth between me and Carrow, but all I could see were Carrow's beady little eyes backed by some insane fire.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Weasley," Carrow chided. "Dantley?"

Meg looked at me wildly. "I, uh..." she stammered, clearly trying to think of an excuse.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Carrow snapped again. "Moving on. Greengrass?"

Daphne held her wand up without hesitation, pointing it at Crabbe's face. She held the position and seemed to be considering her options. "Professor Carrow," she said slowly. "I'd rather work with a different partner."

Warning bells immediately began ringing in my head. The absurdity of the situation was unbelievable—our professor was actually asking us to inflict what I'd heard was mind-shattering pain on one another and Daphne was referring to it as "working with a partner."

"Your reasons, Ms. Greengrass?" Carrow asked, interested.

"Private," Daphne responded quietly, blushing as she looked down at the floor.

"What's the problem, Daphne?" I asked before I could stop myself. "Worried that cursing Crabbe will stop him from shagging you in the fifth floor girl's lavatory?"

Daphne whirled on me, fury plain on her face, wand still raised, and shot something fast and bright at me. A searing pain ripped through my left shoulder, disappearing as quickly as it had come. I processed what had just happened—she'd hexed me, actually _hexed _me—and launched myself across the room at her, swearing loudly. There was a bang and I hit the chalkboard on the other side of the room, held against the wall by Carrow's spell.

"Ladies, _please_," Carrow said silkily. "I will not tolerate fighting in my classroom."

I struggled against the spell that held me to the wall. It pressed against my throat so strongly that air came only in tiny gasps; my vision was already starting to go a little black at the edges.

"Class is dismissed," Carrow said. "Everyone is to write a scroll-and-a-half essay detailing the use of any of the Unforgivables during the last century, due to me in class on Friday."

One by one, the students began to trickle out. I weakly pushed against the spell, trying to get out. I saw Meg approach me, but Carrow snapped "_Out_, Dantley" so vehemently that she scurried away, mouthing "I'm sorry" to me at the door. Once the room was vacated, Carrow walked up to me slowly, a smile spreading across his face as I fought to breathe.

"You are a curious specimen indeed," he said when he was close enough that I could feel his breath on my face. The spell let up abruptly and I would have fallen to the floor if his hand hadn't replaced the pressure, dirty fingernails at my throat, still cutting off my air supply.

"I would tread very lightly if I were you," he said quietly, using his free hand to move a strand of hair from my face. "You would do well to make a friend out of me. By any means necessary."

I could barely process his words, let alone the meanings and implications behind them, but I knew that I didn't like what was going on. I mustered every bit of strength left in my body and threw my knee up between his legs, but I was slow and his free hand caught my thigh, hitching it up against his side. Tears of frustration, fear, and utter repulsion sprang to my eyes.

"Attempting to injure a teacher, Weasley?" he whispered. Danger stood out like flint in his eyes. "Ten points from Gryffindor. And detention this Saturday."

With that, he pushed away from the wall and my legs gave way. I landed hard on my knee, sucking air in greedily, trying to compose myself as he headed for the door.

"I didn't understand why he is so..._enchanted _by you at first," he said, pausing in the doorway, "but I must say, I am beginning to understand your appeal."

I heard the door slam behind him and slowly pulled my knees to my chest, giving into tears that I'd been holding back since Daphne's hex, since George's ear, since Mad-Eye's Death, since Harry..._Harry_. The now-familiar weight of despair settled into my chest as I imagined what Harry would think if he'd seen Carrow pressed up against me a few minutes earlier and I cried on the stone floor of the abandoned classroom of the building I'd once thought of as the safest place in my entire world.

[A/N] As always, so so so sorry for the delay. I had the end of my semester plus the holidays. Additionally, I was throwing around a few different ideas concerning where I wanted the overall storyline to go and had to work some of that out now so that I don't end up having to retcon a whole bunch of things later on. I absolutely intend on finishing this story! I'm off for break until the 8th of January, so I should be updating regularly between now and then. Thanks for your patience!

-I changed Peter Callahan, the Seventh Year Gryffindor transfer student, to Lucas Callahan. It's on purpose, the name fits better this way.


	5. Revival

**Chapter Five: Revival**

I spent the afternoon wandering the grounds, trying to clear my head. I sat where Harry and I had spent hours at the end of last year for a long time, staring at the lake and watching the giant squid flop about in the shallows. I replayed through every conversation we'd had and every touch we shared, the way my head fit perfectly against his shoulder.

I stood up as the sun was setting behind the castle, casting long shadows over the grass. The shadow of one of the turrets stretched almost to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. I thought through my brothers' stories of what lay behind the trees—giant spiders, vampires, centaurs, tree spirits, unicorns, werewolves. But, then, Professor Lupin was a werewolf. And Fenrir Greyback was rumored to be in the area...I shrugged off a shudder and began plodding my way back up to the castle.

I passed Great Hall, lit up and noisy with dinner, and debated going inside. I could see Meg, Bianca, Parvati, and the rest of my House laughing about something. I paused for half a second longer and continued walking, up to the Owlery.

Pig fluttered down to perch on my shoulder the instant I entered the room. Ron had left him with me when he'd gone off with Harry and Hermione. I settled into an uncomfortable stone chair surrounded by bits of parchment and old quill nibs, debating what to write. And who to write to. I obviously couldn't send anything to Harry, Ron, or Hermione. Mum was out, she'd have an absolute cow if she knew how my first day had gone. No one was speaking to Percy, not that I'd write to him of my own volition anyway. Fred and George were probably the best choice, but they so busy with their shop, plus they spent lots of time at the Burrow for Mum to weasel information out of them. Bill was still dealing with nearly becoming a werewolf and a married man. Which left...Charlie.

I smiled to myself and pulled out a roll of parchment. Charlie should've been my first thought, really. He'd sent me an owl on my first day at Hogwarts, telling me about how he'd nearly been expelled three times by the end of his first week, and we'd kept in contact regularly since then. His obsession with dragons was entertaining and excellent for helping me keep my life at Hogwarts in perspective. He was likely to have brilliant advice on how to deal with Carrow and, as an added bonus, didn't talk to Mum or Dad much outside of holidays.

I wrote quickly, leaving my fingers splattered with ink, trying to make the letters as small as possible for Pig's sake.

_Charlie,_

_I hope Romania's excellent. How's that Welshie settling in? Still setting you on fire every time you go near him? I hope your hair's growing out, too, Mum really did a number on it at Bill's wedding. _

_I've just finished my first day and...I don't even know what to tell you. It's not like Hogwarts at all. The Sorting Hat flat-out refused to sort the new class and the transfer students, which was a great way to start the year. Snape's Headmaster, waltzing around like he owns the place. Half my classmates are missing, probably on the run from that idiotic Blood Status law. Umbridge's Educational Decrees are everywhere and they've given everyone these tiny little hourglasses that track how many points you win or lose for your House. I can barely breathe without getting in trouble. They've changed "Defense Against the Dark Arts" to "Introduction to Dark Arts" and it's taught by this absolute arse of a human being, Amycus Carrow. I don't know, Charlie. He scares me. A lot. I knew coming back that everything would have changed, what with Dumbledore gone and Harry, Ron, and Hermione off who-knows-where, and You-Know-Who having taken over the Ministry, but I guess I at least thought that I'd still feel safe here. _

_I suppose there is one bright point, though. You'll never guess who transferred to Hogwarts because of that mandatory education law: Bianca Delacour, Fleur's cousin! She's a Fourth Year Gryffindor, she and Meg get along famously. _

_Love always,_

_Ginny_

I folded the letter as small as I could and bound it to Pig's leg.

"Be safe, okay?" I told him quietly, gently ruffling his feathers. "Take lots of breaks and spend a few days recovering with Charlie when you get there."

He gave me a squeaky little hoot and sped off out a window, pelting along like an uncoordinated, fuzzy Snitch. I watched him go enviously and finally headed back to the Gryffindor tower.

**

* * *

**

Later that night, I sat with my chin on a table in the common room, staring at my decidedly bottom-heavy hourglass and waiting for Meg to get back from the prefects' meeting. Demelza Robbins, a Fifth Year who'd played Chaser with me last year and was likely to slap you for using her given name, was sitting next to me and pretending to start the essay for Carrow—in addition to teaching all the years the same introductory course, he'd assigned everyone the same homework. Lazy git. The absence of chatter and the gloomy atmosphere made it easy to assume that everyone had had a first day as awful as mine.

The Fat Lady's portrait swung forward abruptly and every head in the room turned to watch our six prefects climb in through the hole.

"Right," Neville said. "We don't really have much to tell you."

"It was a lot of Pansy and Blaise acting like they're ruling by divine right," Meg continued, walking across the room and plopping down in front of me. I distractedly started braiding her hair.

"We're losing in the House Competition," Annie said. "Quite considerably, actually. Nicely done, you lot."

The Fourth Year boys took up a small cheer and bowed; they'd each lost five points during Potions by sabotaging the Slytherins' cauldrons.

"Yeah, yeah, great," Neville interrupted, waving a hand to quiet them. "But I'm serious, everyone. We need to start toeing the line. Blaise said that there'll be a list of the punishments for levels of demerits by the end of the week; until we know what we're up against, could you all please just _try_ not to get yourself killed?"

There was general awkward muttering of consent from pretty much everyone in the room—save yours truly, who stared stubbornly at the portrait of Godric Gryffindor above the fireplace.

"There is one bit of good news, though," Ryan said suddenly, his face brightening. "Quidditch is on."

Disbelief and a few cheers echoed through the room.

"Seriously?" I asked, not quite believing my ears. "We're not allowed to have more than two people in a bathroom at any given time, but we're allowed to play Quidditch?"

"No one would tell us why, and I imagine all the games will be very unfairly refereed," Parvati chimed in. "But yes. You're to hold team try-outs this Saturday afternoon; first matches will be Halloween weekend."

"Brilliant," I breathed. Objectively, I knew that permission to hop on a broomstick a few times a week wouldn't really make that much of a difference in how terrible this year was proving to be. But it helped.

That seemed to be the end of the announcements; people started trickling up to their rooms, already complaining about homework. As I took the first few steps upstairs, Neville caught my arm and pulled me back.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" he asked quietly, eyeing up the stairs at Meg's retreating back.

"Sure," I said. He lead me over to the armchairs in front of the fire place, sat me down, and held out his hand.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"Your hourglass, Ginny," he said gently but firmly.

"If you're asking about it," I countered crossly, "you obviously know what it looks like. Did Meg tell you?"

"Please, Gin," he sighed. I begrudgingly pulled the small figure from my pocket and dropped it into his hand.

"Seventy-four, Ginny?" he said incredulously. "I thought I said—I mean, I _asked_—."

"It's not like I did it on purpose!" I exclaimed. "Meg had to have told you, Carrow was being totally unreasonable and you _know_ how I feel about Daphne Greengrass."

"And a detention on top of the demerits?" Neville asked quietly. He looked up at me with such sad, concerned eyes that I actually felt bad for not trying harder to be a model student.

"I didn't do it on purpose," I repeated, more gently this time. "But Neville, you haven't had Dark Arts yet, it's awful. What they're actually expecting us to do, I just...I just _can't._ And Carrow...he scares me, Neville," I said, repeating what I'd written to Charlie. "He scares me a lot."

Neville handed back my hourglass and put his face in his hands, seeming to age ten years in two seconds. "Okay," he said. "Tell me what happened."

I ran through the story quickly, trying not to think about it too much. I explained the unanswerable questions, the demand to perform the Cruciatus Curse, Daphne's hex and my one-on-one with Carrow after everyone else had left. Neville stood and started pacing at that point; apparently it was too much for him to take sitting down. I finished the recounting and started chewing on my thumbnail, a nervous habit I'd picked up from Meg.

"Okay," he said suddenly, stopping his pacing. "Okay, you win."

"What?" I said, alarmed. "What did I win?"

"We'll try to start the DA again. But I mean it, Ginny, we have to keep this quiet."

I nodded seriously. "Of course. Strictest of confidences."

He resumed pacing. "We should get another one of those enchanted bits of paper that Hermione came up with and make people sign it.

"We should have code phrases that change on a weekly basis."

"We should not have everyone at every meeting to throw off suspicion."

"We should wear disguises to meetings."

He stood still. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Just a little," I laughed, getting up and standing in front of him. "Neville. We'll take all the necessary measures. Caution, restraint, and tact."

He looked at me. "Who are you and what have you done with Ginny?"

"It's something McGonagall told me. Can I go to bed now?" I realized suddenly just how tired I actually was.

"Yeah, you and me both," he said, bending to pick up his bag. Something fell out of his pocket as he did so and I stooped to pick it up before he did. His hourglass.

"'Neville Frank Longbottom, Seventh Year Gryffindor'," I read out loud. "'Current standing: 62 demerits." I raised my eyebrows at him over the hourglass. "Sixty-two, Neville? Really?"

"Give me that," he said crossly, swiping it out of my hand. "Blaise said something rude and I called him a prat."

"And he took twelve points away for that?"

"Ten. The other two were for tripping Crabbe and Goyle in the hallway earlier. First meeting this Saturday?"

I shook my head. "Detention with Carrow in the morning, then Quidditch tryouts all afternoon. Early next week?"

"Sounds good. See you in the morning, Gin."

"Night, Neville," I called after him as he headed up the stairs. I took a second to look around the deserted common room and was about to follow suit when I heard steps descending from the boys' side of the staircase. "Forget something?"

Lucas' puzzled face came into view. "Forget what?"

"Oh! Hey. Sorry, I thought you were Neville again. What're you doing up this late?"

"Awfully nosy, aren't you?" He said, walking over to a table and picking up a Muggle device for playing music. "Seamus snores something awful, I need this to drown out the sound."

"Oh. Okay." We stood awkwardly in front of each other at the base of the stairs.

"Sorry I ran out of class today," he said after a second of silence. "Professor Vector wanted to talk to me before lunch."

"Not a problem," I said. "When do you want to start getting to know each other?"

"Ginevra Weasley," he said, taking a deep breath. "You go by Ginny. Sixteen years old, six older brothers, romantically linked to Michael Corner, Dean Thomas, and more recently, the famed Harry Potter. Chaser and Captain for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. You don't like being told what to do, your favorite color is blue, and you apparently have a ridiculously effective Bat-Bogey Hex hiding up your sleeve."

I think my jaw just about hit the floor. "You've been here for less than two days, how on earth do you know all of that?"

He shrugged and winked. "People talk. I listen. Plus, a certain reporter for the _Daily Prophet_ had a field day about you and Potter a few months back."

"Brilliant," I muttered. "Okay, so, you know a bunch of vaguely creepy details about me. Your turn."

He started rattling things off. "Lucas Callahan, although I much prefer Luke. Seventeen years old, two much younger sisters. Attended Remington Academy up until this year, where I was romantically linked to a few girls, currently to my girlfriend Abby. I'm a Keeper, hopefully for Gryffindor. My favorite color is green, I adore Muggle rock music, and our Headmaster is very unsettling to me. And now you know. Goodnight, Ginny."

He winked once more and went upstairs, leaving me a little flabbergasted. Hell of a first day.

[A/N] Thanks for reading! And for the reviews :) This was a slow chapter, but don't worry, things'll get exciting realllll soon. Love always, EBJ


	6. Truth and Detention

**Chapter Six: Truth and Detention**

It turned out to be one hell of a first week. Between alternately pissing off the Carrows (Amycus' sister, Alecto, was an absolute shrew who'd taken over Muggle Studies and used the class period to shriek about how disgusting Muggles and Muggle-borns were) and performing favorably in Charms and Care of Magical Creatures, I had accumulated a whopping eighty-two demerits by the end of classes on Friday.

I limped out of Dark Arts that afternoon leaning heavily on Meg. Amycus had apparently been informed that the Unforgivables were not appropriate classroom material and reverted to bullying us into practicing rote hexes on one another. Upon determining that nothing he could say and no amount of demerits could make me curse a classmate (even Daphne, although she sorely tried my patience), I'd become the go-to demonstration dummy. Meg was helping me walk off the effects of several back-to-back blood-stalling curses, which essentially froze all the blood in your body for a few seconds, when Nearly-Headless Nick came gliding out of a tapestry

"Ah, young Miss Weasley," Nick said. "Professor McGonagall would like to see you in her office."

"Now, Nick?" Meg protested as one of my legs gave a rather violent spasm. Blood-stalling didn't exactly _hurt_, it was just extremely odd and seemed to cause my muscles to need to reset themselves. "It's not exactly a good time."

"No, I should say it isn't," Nick responded darkly, then glided abruptly back through the tapestry.

"'No, I should say it isn't.'" Meg imitated Nick's pompous tone perfectly. "Honestly, ridiculous. Come on, I'll help you get there before I go off to our ten thousandth bloody prefects' meeting this week."

"I'm fine," I said, pushing off her shoulder and using the wall to hold myself up. "Can't have you being late and giving Blaise an excuse to dock points."

She looked at me skeptically. "Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine!" I waved her off. "I'll see you at dinner?"

She gave me one last look, then darted off down the hall. I followed at a more leisurely pace, measuring each of my steps and focusing on breathing. It took me almost half an hour to get up to McGonagall's office, a walk that normally would have taken me ten minutes, but by the time I knocked on her stately oak door I was nearly back to normal.

"Come in," McGonagall called. I took a deep breath, drew myself up straight, and walked in.

"Ah, Miss Weasley," she said, looking up from whatever she was writing. "Please, have a seat."

I settled into the same seat I'd used on Monday, surprised at how comfortable it already felt to be sitting there. "Sorry it took me so long to get here. Professor Carrow's teaching methods don't exactly agree with me."

She gave me a patented McGonagall look, the one halfway between amused and disappointed in rule breaking. "I understand. Now, I called you here to discuss your Transfiguration partner, Mr. Callahan."

"Lucas?" I thought of my enigmatic new...friend? acquitance? housemate? "What about him?"

"I confess that I did not assign the pairings randomly. I placed you and Mr. Callahan together on purpose."

I felt a confused look cross my face. "Why?"

She fixed me with another look. "What I am about to tell you, Miss Weasley, must be kept in confidence. I told Mr. Callahan that his identity would remain a secret; however, as the two of you will be working so closely, it would be unwise of me to allow you to proceed without the knowledge of what you may find."

I shifted uncomfortably. "Professor?"

"Lucas Callahan's original name was Lucas Bronte. Does the name mean anything to you?'

I scanned back through my memory, waiting for a bell to ring. "I don't believe so. It sounds a little familiar, but nothing specific."

"His parents are Arlene and Joseph Bronte." She watched my face carefully.

"You can't mean...not _the_ Arlene and Joseph Bronte?" I asked, fighting off the urge to gag. If Lucas' parents were who McGonagall was implying, they were the Death Eaters in charge of You-Know-Who's front in the States. At least, they had been—Arlene had been killed months ago by an American Auror and Joseph had gone into hiding.

"From the States, yes," McGonagall said. "Lucas and his younger sisters have been estranged from them for quite some time; Lucas filed for emancipation last year and the girls live with their godmother."

I tried to rationally think my way through what I'd just been told. "Emancipation? So he has nothing to do with them?"

"A transcript of the court proceedings were sent here upon his transfer," McGonagall explained. "Lucas was very vehement that he wanted no contact with his parents ever again. In his exact words, he finds their actions and beliefs degrading, disgusting, and disturbing. He changed his last name in an attempt to fully shed the connection."

I mulled this over and slowly nodded. "And that's why he's in Gryffindor?"

McGonagall's face cleared, apparently pleased with how I was handling the news. "We decided that publicly rejecting his parents and, by proxy, the Dark Lord, while exceedingly dangerous and foolish, was also very brave."

I continued nodding. "All right."

"I placed you together, Miss Weasley, because I judge you to have an open mind and a willing heart," McGonagall said quietly. "Mr. Callahan may have a dark past, but he is very nearly alone in the world and could use a friend who will watch over him and accept him for what he is. I suspect Headmaster Dumbledore had a much similar motivation for encouraging the friendship between your brother and Mr. Potter."

I blinked at that, taken aback by the abrupt comparison that I found amiss in several ways, but again kept my opinion to myself. "Thank you for telling me."

"I deemed it necessary. Thank you, Ms. Weasley, you may go." She turned abruptly back to her work and I was left to wander back to the Gryffindor tower by myself, still processing all the information.

I entered the common room to the comfortably raucous sounds of the first weekend of the year. I planned to go upstairs and drop off my things before settling into a couch with Bianca, Julia, Demi Robbins, and Natalie MacDonald (another Fourth Year who'd played Chaser the previous year), but a large figure rushing down the boys' stairs nearly knocked me off my feet before I could get there. He caught me easily and set me straight again, looking carefully into my eyes. Lucas, broomstick in hand.

"Sorry, Ginny," he laughed. "Didn't see you. You all right? I'm on my way out to the Quidditch pitch, a couple of the younger guys said they'd shoot on me for practice before tomorrow's try-out."

I must have been looking at him funnily, because he let go of my elbows and took a step back. Recognition crossed his face.

"She told you, didn't she?" He said quietly. "McGonagall."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I'd been fine with the concept in McGonagall's office, but actually standing here face to face with him was a different story.

"She told you that I'm emancipated, right?" He asked nervously, starting to talk very quickly. "I'd still be a minor living in the States, and I had to get away from them, Ginny, I just had to. Please, you have to believe me, I never liked anything they did and I never wanted to be anything like them."

I held up my hand to stop his babbling. "I won't tell anyone," I said slowly. "And I like you, Lucas, and I want to believe you. But it's going to take some getting used to."

A grin of relief plastered itself over his face, the first time I'd truly seen him look happy. "That's fine, that's great, that's terrific," he said, back to babbling. "That's really all I could ask for. I won't let you down."

I couldn't help but smile back; his happiness was catching. He smiled at my smile, then darted past me toward the portrait hole.

"Oi, Ginny!" he called, and I looked over my shoulder to see him walking backwards, still smiling. "The name's Luke."

I rolled my eyes and went up the stairs.

* * *

The first Saturday of the year started quietly. Meg, Julia and I were the only three in our room—there had only been four girl Gryffindors our year to begin with, and Alexa Dumphey hadn't been heard from since June—and both were still snoring lightly into their pillows when my watch started beeping quietly. I hit a button to turn it off and stayed still for a few minutes.

Sunlight was just starting to creep in through the window, beaming through the pale gold curtains that surrounded my bed. Arnold the Pygmy Puff rolled contentedly in a circle on the pillow next to me. I looked at my watch again. My dad had given it to me a few Christmases back. It hadn't worked at all, but Dad of course thought I'd find it fascinating. Harry had fixed it last year with a couple nifty little tools and something he called a battery—Hermione had explained the concept to me later, and I vaguely understood—and since then I'd rarely taken it off. I ran my fingers across the face, thinking about where all of them were now. Dad was probably still in bed, or maybe just waking up, sitting in the kitchen with Mom. Hermione and Harry—that familiar cold, dead weight that sat in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought about how much danger Harry was probably in threatened in my throat. I forced the thought away and actually processed the information the watch was giving me, 8:38. I had detention with Amycus at 9, and that was supposed to go until noon; I'd set Quidditch tryouts from 1 to 4, and then I had the additional work that Snape had set me as punishment for my demerit count after dinner. The actual list of punishments per demerit levels had yet to be posted, and I wasn't anticipating anything pleasant.

I groaned and rolled out of bed, allowing Arnold to drift up onto my shoulder as I gathered everything I'd need for the day and packed it into my bookbag. As it was Saturday and we weren't required to be in uniform on weekends, I shrugged into a pair of Muggle pants Hermione had given me last Christmas (blue jeans, she'd called them) and a light blue shirt, then slung my bookbag across my chest. I deposited Arnold next to Julia, where he immediately began tickling her nose, pulled on a pair of flat boots, tucked my wand into one, and set off.

I adored the castle before everyone else woke up. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, played across the stone walls, and just made everything seem more colourful and alive. As I descended toward the dungeons looking for Amycus's office, the windows grew smaller and eventually disappeared and I was forced to light my wand in order not to trip on the uneven stairs. I finally found the right door, slid my wand back into my boot, and knocked, the sound echoing eerily in the abandoned passageway. The door swung open and Carrow towered over me, all foul breath and bad hygiene.

"Miss Weasley, how good of you to join us," he said, ushering me into the room with a regal sweep of his arm. "Please, have a seat."

_Us?_ I thought, momentarily confused by the statement until I entered the room and saw that about half a dozen people were gathered in the small, messy space. Half a dozen people that included...

"I don't believe you've met my friend, Fenrir Greyback?"

I looked up into the face of the werewolf who'd nearly killed my brother and fought every bit of my Weasley heritage that was screaming at me to go for his throat. With the way he leered at me, I should have been afraid, but instead a cool ball of rage settled into the pit of my stomach.

"It's a pleasure," I said, unable to take my eyes off his face, which had distinctly wolfish features despite his human form.

He didn't respond with words, but rather gave a raspy little growl that made one of the other people in the room give out a little squeak of fear. Looking down to my left, I saw a Third Year Hufflepuff I only vaguely knew—Rose Zeller—sitting in a chair next to me, looking like she was ready to burst into tears. My disdain for Carrow doubled in that instant. The other three in the room were some of my least favorite Slytherins: Malcolm Baddock, whom I'd played against in Quidditch, Blaise Zabini and, of course, Daphne Greengrass.

"Now that everyone has arrived, we will begin," Carrow proclaimed. "Everyone to the empty dungeon across the hall, please."

We filed out in a single line. I tried to grab Rose's hand to give it a reassuring squeeze, but Daphne knocked me out of the way. We walked into a large, abandoned room: stone walls on three side, metal bars across the fourth. A series of iron loops embedded in the floor and along the walls and a pile of chains against one wall clearly signaled what this room was intended for.

"Now then," Carrow continued, ushering Rose and I to one end of the room and lining everyone else—including Greyback—up against the far wall. "Miss Zeller, perhaps you would like to tell everyone what you did to earn a detention in your first week?"

Rose hid her face under a mess of curly brown hair and muttered something. Despite the less than ideal situation, I actually found myself curious—what _had_ this timid young Hufflepuff done?

"Louder, please, Miss Zeller. You must learn to speak up."

Rose took a deep breath and spoke, still only a little louder than a whisper. "The other Professor Carrow was hurting a friend of mine in the hallway. I threw a book at her.

"And why, Miss Zeller, was that wrong?"

"Because I mustn't harm a teacher," Rose said shakily, sounding dangerously close to tears.

Daphne snickered and my internal ball of rage glowed red hot for a moment. I struggled to keep it under control as Carrow called my name and asked me to explain what I had done to earn a detention. _Caution, restraint, tact_, I chanted to myself, making it a mantra. _Caution, restraint, tact_.

"During Dark Arts on Monday," I began carefully, considering each of my words before letting it fall, "I conducted myself improperly. While you were disciplining me, Sir, I grew angry and attempted to cause you harm."

"And why, Miss Weasley, was that wrong?"

"Because I mustn't harm a teacher," I said between gritted teeth, mimicking Rose's answer.

Carrow smiled a smile that was a mixture of sweet and slimy. "There, now, ladies, if only you'll only continue these attitudes, we'll have no need for further detentions. Miss Greengrass and Mr. Baddock are here because each need a little extra practice with the topics discussed in class this past week; Mr. Zabini is here as Head Boy to help run the detention period. Mr. Greyback is merely here in an...advisory capacity."

Carrow began pacing in front of me and Rose, and I felt myself growing increasingly uneasy. Daphne certainly didn't need any "practice" with what we'd done in class, she'd "practiced" multiple times on me already.

"Now then, Miss Zeller. While your aim with that text you threw at my sister was horrendous, I do believe a simple reinforcement is in order so that you are not tempted to repeat the intent behind the act. Are we agreed?"

Rose nodded slowly, clearly too terrified to dissent.

"Can you tell me what the Third and Fourth Years learned in class this past week?"

"The-the-the Simple Scourge, Professor," Rose answered quietly.

I closed my eyes. I thought I could see where this was going, but I willed myself to be wrong.

"And what, Miss Zeller, is the Simple Scourge?"

"A-a-a spell, Sir, that allows the user to emit a sustained beam from his or her wand that can be used to-to-to whip someone."

"Ah, you've been reading your textbook, haven't you, Miss Zeller? Very good. Mr. Baddock demonstrated poor aim and stamina with this spell in class, so in order to kill two birds with one stone...I believe fifteen lashes should do the trick, Mr. Baddock."

"No!" I shouted, throwing myself in front of Rose before Malcolm could raise his wand. "Are you bloody mental? She's thirteen!"

Without warning, Carrow spun abruptly on his heel and backhanded me across the face. Rose cried out in the horror; I stumbled down to one knee but did not go down to the floor. Rose helped me stand and I glared at Carrow, well aware that a bruise was already rising under my right eye. In the back corner, Greyback grinned evilly. Carrow stepped up close to me, grabbing my hair and using it to yank me way from Rose.

"You will hold your tongue," he hissed, "and mind your place. Or I'll see to it that Miss Zeller waits hours before receiving any kind of healing."

He released me and strode away, speaking louder. "You may begin, Mr. Baddock. Miss Zeller, I suggest you turn around."

Rose, tears streaming silently down her face, slowly turned on the spot. Malcolm raised his wand, and before I could think through my actions I'd thrown myself across the room again. I caught the brunt of Malcolm's Simple Scourge as it came down and went all the way to the ground this time, the shock of it running through my body.

Carrow sighed, apparently exasperated. "Fenrir, would you mind restraining our reckless young friend here?"

In a flash, I was up on my feet, arms pinned together behind my back, pulled in close against Greyback's dirty, hard body. He moved us around so we were could see Rose's face, blank with terror. Greyback pulled on my hair with his free hand, forcing me to watch Rose as Malcolm's blows began to fall. She kept her feet until the fifth stroke, falling to her knees and finally going facedown on the floor. All the while, Greyback whispered in my ear about how much he'd enjoyed attacking Bill and how good I would probably taste, pretty little thing that I was.

After the final lash, he dropped me and I ran to Rose, resting her head into my lap as she curled up on her side and sobbed. Blood seeped through the back of her shirt. Across the dungeon, Daphne gave Malcolm a high five.

Carrow pointed his wand at Rose and, before I could react, Stunned her and magicked her onto a just-conjured stretcher. "Mr. Baddock, this concludes your extra practice. Please accompany Miss Zeller up to the Infirmary to see that she gets there safely. Madame Pomfrey should be waiting."

I watched Rose float away, followed by the hateful little git who'd done this to her, then turned to face the four that were left, each watching me with a unique expression. Greyback looked disturbingly hungry, Daphne was eager, Carrow seemed satisfied, and Blaise alone looked almost...unsure.

The next hour was not one I enjoyed. Carrow had Daphne work on perfecting her blood stalling curse, which involved a lot of my not being sure if my heart was actually beating. It also involved a lot of choice swear words, which occasionally earned me kicks in the ribs from Blaise. By the time Carrow announced that it was ten o'clock and Daphne's extra practice was over, I was unable to get up and just lay on the cold, rough stone floor. There was no way this was happening. At _Hogwarts_.

Greyback hauled me up by my armpit and pushed me out into the hall. I had a fleeting hope that I'd be allowed to go, but he gave me another push through into Carrow's office, where I was set to work writing "I mustn't harm a teacher" countless times in letters so shaky I barely recognized them as my own. Greyback, Carrow, and Blaise rotated through the room, checking my progress every so often.

At noon, I was unceremoniously dumped back into the dungeon room. This time Blaise had his wand out and was stretching his fingers. I could barely think; I just stood there and swayed slightly. Carrow gave Blaise a nod, the wand came up, and I unbelievingly heard the word "_Imperio!_" shoot across the dungeon at me.

Immediately, almost everything went dim. A pleasant voice, like that of a friend speaking in my ear, told me to hop up and down and I complied instantly.

_Stop_, said the voice. _Go over to the wall_.

Once again, I obeyed without thought. I didn't even think to have thoughts.

_Hit your head against that stone_.

I lightly tapped my forehead against the wall.

_Harder_.

I smashed my head into the wall with such force that I wound up flat on my back, blood dripping down into my hair. I was vaguely aware of Carrow talking to Blaise, but what I was more aware of was a tiny little part of my brain that was comparing this experience with being possessed by Tom Riddle during my first year and not liking it at all. That small corner of my mind chastised me for hitting my head against the wall-_idiot move, really_—and told me to try harder.

_Get up_, said the pleasant voice.

_Don't really want to, do I? _responded the small piece of me that was still me. _The floor seems like a better option_.

_**Get up**_**, **repeated the voice, much more forcefully this time. I found my legs moving without my consent and wound up vertical and unhappy about it.

_Now,_ the pleasant voice in my head continued. _Break one of your fingers._

The tiny part of my brain freaked out at this, but the rest of me was already wiggling my fingers and trying to figure out what in the room I could use to break one. There was a lantern holder on the wall that would probably work. I tottered over to it, blood streaming down over my eye. I grasped the metal holder with both hands and lifted it down.

_Don't do this_, warned my small bit of sanity. _He can't make you do this_.

I knelt and spread my left hand flat against the floor, holding the lantern casing above my head, shuddering as my internal war intensified. Blaise was practically yelling inside my head, louder every second, but my private mind was getting stronger as well. I finally brought the lantern holder crashing down, but tried to move my hand at the same time, which resulted in me smashing the entire back of my left hand and not just my index finger. Blaise lifted the curse and I keeled over in pain, clutching my mangled hand to my chest. Overhead, I heard Carrow dismissing both Blaise and Greyback, then experienced the bizarre feeling accompanying levitation.

Carrow deposited me in a chair in his office, then crouched in front of me and began stretching the fingers of my broken hand, eliciting moans of protest from me.

"Hush now, Miss Weasley," he said with uncharacteristic kindness. "I know it hurts, but you understand why I had to do this. You must learn the rules. I'm simply trying to make you a better witch."

My battered brain could barely comprehend what he was saying. Being this close to him—being _alone_ with him—was making me dizzy and nauseous. Or maybe that was just the rays of pain shooting up my arm.

"You broke three of the bones in your hand," he diagnosed, "as well as your middle finger. Rather impressive commitment."

I tried to come up with something witty to say in return, but a fresh wave of pain overtook me as he bent my ring finger back.

"Such a curious specimen," he said, repeating his words from earlier that week. "So much spirit." He abruptly snapped my finger beyond the tolerance point and instead of screaming in pain I just watched it flop limply back along the arm of the chair. Suddenly his fingers were tucking hair behind my ear, running along my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "The Dark Lord could use you, Miss Weasley," he said. "You needn't be a blood traitor like the rest of your family. A witch with your talent and fire could go far under his command."

I took a deep, steadying breath. Screw caution, restraint, and tact. I mustered every bit of strength left in me and smacked his hand away from my face. "I'd rather die."

The bastard actually _laughed_. "That can be arranged, Miss Weasley. That can be arranged quite easily. You're free to go."

I fled the dungeons as quickly as I could, half running and half stumbling, only coming to a stop when I reached the main floor. A glance at my watch told me that it was nearly one o'clock; I didn't have time to go up to the Infirmary before Quidditch try-outs. I'd have to remember to check on Rose later.

I dodged into the first bathroom I came across and barely made it into a stall before being violently sick. Once my knees stopped shaking, I emerged and surveyed myself in the mirror. Horrendous. Blood from smashing my own head against the wall was matted in my hair and still dripping steadily, my hand was a swollen mess, and I had a blossoming bruise on my cheek that promised to turn into a spectacular black eye. I ran through the basic healing spells we'd gone over in past DA meetings but decided that I didn't trust my shaky hands to perform magic; at any rate, I definitely didn't have the skill required to fix my hand. I settled for scrubbing my face clean and rinsing out my hair in the sink. I pressed a towel against my forehead, decided it would have to do, and went back out into the hallway, walking quickly toward the Quidditch pitch.

[A/N] A long chapter as my apology to you for the long waits earlier this month :)


	7. Tryouts and Trials

**Chapter Seven: Try-outs and Trials**

I stumbled out onto the Quidditch pitch a few minutes after 1, still trying to stop the bleeding over my eye and holding my Cleansweep 7 awkwardly with my broken hand. Twenty-some Gryffindors were gathered in the middle of the pitch, some doing flips on their brooms to dispel nervous energy.

I heard a small, high-pitched shriek and Luna came darting toward me, wand out. I'd forgotten that I'd asked her to watch the try-outs with me—despite her decidedly off commentary last year, she actually had a good eye for the game—but sighed in relief when she had her wand out and was fixing my hand in seconds. Luckily for me, Luna was always the best out of all of us at Healing spells.

"What happened to you?" she asked softly, momentarily serious and level-headed.

"Detention with Carrow," I explained simply, wincing as the bones in my hand started to pop back into place.

She nodded sagely and sealed the cut over my eye. The massive headache I hadn't realized I had subsided and I threw my arms around Luna in appreciation. "There, there, dear," she said, patting me on the head. "I'm afraid I can't do anything about your eye, there are too many blood vessels and nerves and things that I might damage."

"You're the best," I said, then straightened myself up and blew a small whistle. Everyone gathered or landed in a circle around me.

"Right," I began. "In case you don't know, I'm Ginny Weasley, Team Captain and Chaser. This is Luna Lovegood, a friend of mine who's going to help me keep an eye on things. Let's start with everyone up taking practice shots; we'll rotate through the people trying out for Keeper and divide into positions later."

Lucas, after cautiously checking in on my shiner, flew up to the posts and did a brilliant job of deflecting nearly everything that came his way. He seemed unused to the distance between the hoops—apparently they were set further apart in the States—but adjusted nicely. Bianca Delacour, the only other person trying out for Keeper, missed practically every single shot, but laughed it off.

"I've been on a broom three times in my entire life," she explained, zooming in and landing haphazardly close to me. "I just thought I'd come see if I was a natural." She headed back toward the ground, dismounting with very little grace, and went back up toward the castle.

"All right," I announced. "It looks like Lucas—Luke—will be our Keeper this year." A few of the guys applauded and Lucas took a little bow, smiling foolishly ear-to-ear. "Okay, let's go into a scrimmage. I'll Keep for the far goals, with Demi, Jack, and Annie as Chasers. Ritchie and Andrew are my Beaters. On Luke's team, let's have Natalie, Romilda, and Edward Chase; Jimmy and Evan can beat for that team. We'll rotate everyone else into those positions. No one's going out for Seeker?"

My question was met with silence. I shrugged unhappily. "All right, no worries, we'll deal with a Seeker later."

* * *

About an hour and a half into the continuous scrimmage, the sun was starting to force its way through the clouds and I was feeling markedly better than I had that morning. Quidditch was...normal. Despite everything. Nothing was wrong when my feet weren't touching the ground.

I blew my whistle to end the match and motioned everyone to take a water break. I landed near Luna, stretching my legs and awkwardly adjusting to solid ground; I waved Lucas over and he brought me a cup of water.

"I'd like to stick with Demi and Natalie as Chasers," I said after rinsing dust out of my mouth. "They're the cleanest Quaffle handlers, plus Demi's probably the best flier on the field and Natalie has that wicked hook shot."

"Demi does fly like an effervescent Bearded Shreen," Luna agreed.

"Riiiiiight," Luke said after a sidelong glance at me. "Anyway, I like Demi and Natalie. What about Beaters? I'm partial to that Peakes kid, he nearly knocked Edward off his broom."

"Jimmy's solid," I nodded. "Ritchie, too, he filled out since last year."

Luna, busy braiding a wildflower into her long white-blonde hair, didn't contradict our opinions.

"So that leaves us without a Seeker," Luke said, looking dejected. "What do we do?"

I shrugged. "Start practice, I guess, and hope someone turns up?"

"You should try Evan Abercrombie," Luna chimed.

"The Second Year?" I said incredulously. "He could barely lift his Beater's bat."

"Try him as Seeker," Luna clarified dreamily. "He's small, but without the bat weighing him down I imagine he'll be a delightful flier."

Luke and I exchanged looks, then he stooped and picked up a handful of pebbles. I caught on and called, "Hey, Evan!" over my shoulder, motioning for him to get up in the air. Luke chucked the pebbles up into the air and Evan zoomed around over our heads, snatching the majority of the stones out of the air. I squeezed Luna's hand appreciatively, congratulated Evan on making the team, and announced the rest of the positions.

I stowed my broom away and walked slowly back up to the castle with Luna. Try-outs had taken longer than I'd thought; the sun was setting and dinner was starting.

"Well, we won't be the best team Gryffindor's ever had," I commented. "But we'll hardly be the worst."

"It's true," Luna agreed, unbraiding the wildflower from her hair and twisting it into mine. She gazed absently over the top of the castle, humming something unrecognizable. We walked in amicable silence. There was something surreal about the moment, heading back to the castle in the fading sunlight after an afternoon of Quidditch, which had been preceded by one of the most horrific mornings of my entire life.

* * *

I ate dinner quickly to give myself enough time to shower before reporting to detention. I made it to the dungeons just in time, edging my way through the twenty or so gathered students to find Neville, who was leaning against a wall and flicking through a book of magical fungi.

"Hey," I said, dropping my bag next to him and starting to twist my still-damp hair into a loose braid.

He nodded absently, holding up a finger, and scanned to the end of the page before shutting the book and smiling at me. "Hey. How'd try-outs—what the _hell_ happened to your eye?"

I was giving him the run-down when a door swung open and a short, pudgy woman with a striped lavender bow perched daintily atop her curls stepped into the hall. Umbridge. I fought the urge to retch.

"Good evening, troublemakers!" She said cheerily. I winced; all those impressions of her incredibly insipid voice just hadn't done her justice. "My name is High Inquisitor Umbridge, and I'll be overseeing the demerit punishments! I'm certain that, over time, there will be fewer and fewer of you here each week, as you begin to understand the importance of following rules. For now, let's make the best of a dreary situation and get to work with smiles on our faces! I'm going to read ranges of demerits and the punishments assigned to them; when your penance is complete, you are free to leave. If you accumulated 51-55 demerits, you will be cleaning ten bedpans for Madam Pomfrey. Off you go."

Four students left the hallway, shuffling their feet up to the infirmary. _Maybe this won't be so bad_, I thought, watching the next group of demerit-earners, 56-60, headed to Filch's office for filing duty. _There are worse things than menial labor. _

Neville left with the 66-70 group to scrubs cauldrons in Slughorn's study, which left me standing in the hallway with Umbridge and, of all people, the tiny blonde girl I'm smiled at just before the aborted Sorting ceremony. She now smiled at me weakly as she wound her Slytherin tie between her fingers (apparently no one had told her that uniforms weren't required on weekends) and I found myself wondering, as I had with Rose, what she'd possibly done to wind up here.

"71-75," Umbridge announced, "Report to Alecto Carrow."

The girl, looking slightly terrified at the idea of being alone with Alecto Carrow, Amycus' crazy, Muggle-hating sister, trudged down the hall and I stood rooted to the spot. Alone in a hallway with Dolores Umbridge.

"Ah, Miss Weasley," she chirped. "As we were unprepared to have anyone collect quite so many demerits as you, we do not have an established punishment. You're to report to Headmaster Snape's office and await further instruction."

_Fine with me_, I thought, then hitched my bag onto my shoulder and stalked off. I had almost reached the stairs when I heard the tiny "a-HEM" we'd all grown to hate. I set my teeth and turned slowly to see her staring at me.

"Yes, High Inquisitor?"

"I know you, Ginny Weasley," she began, walking closer to me in her tiny purple heels. "I know that this is your little form of resistance. You think that doing this will actually matter, that you'll somehow make a difference. But I have a hard truth for you, my darling."

She stopped just in front of me. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hit.

"Nothing you do matters."

I felt like Daphne had snuck up and performed the blood stalling curse on me again.

"Nothing you do counts for anything," she continued. "You seem to think that this tiny war you're waging will somehow effect a change, but you need to know that it's pointless. You do not matter. Not to me, not to Headmaster Snape, not to the Dark Lord. You. Do. Not. Matter."

She looked up at me, all sincerity and heartfelt concern. "Now, my dear, off to the Headmaster's office with you."

* * *

I walked blindly through the halls, letting my feet carry me to the statue that guarded the Headmaster's office. I knew that Umbridge was playing mind games—I _knew _that, didn't I?—but her words were unpleasantly stuck in my ear. I stumbled to a halt in front of the statue, staring at it for a few minutes. I had no idea how to get in.

"Er, excuse me," I began, watching the statue for any sign of life. "I'm supposed to be meeting Prof—Headmaster Snape?"

The statue cocked its head at me and leapt out of the way, granting me access to the spiral staircase.

"Easy enough," I muttered, taking the stairs slowly as I put off the inevitable. Could I handle being alone in a room with this man? My desire to let all my Weasley-ness come out full force was very nearly overwhelming. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. Deep breaths did nothing to calm me down. All I could think of was Fawkes' song over Dumbledore's funeral, Harry's face when he broke up with me to go gallivanting off across the countryside to save all our lives, Mad-Eye Moody winking his non-magical eye at me from across the dinner table...

I burst into the room, thoroughly prepared to give Snape the shouting-at he rightfully deserved, but stalled after my first giant intake of breath. The room was empty. Well, "empty" in the sense of there being no one in it; there was certainly a lot of stuff. I'd never been in the Headmaster's office before, although I'd asked Harry to describe it to me a few times out of curiosity. I had a feeling that a lot had changed since Dumbledore's time as I walked further into a dirty, dimly-lit room cluttered floor-to-ceiling with books, scrolls, and various bits of rubbish. The main desk in the room was particularly disorganized. The portrait frames behind the desk were almost all empty, except for one Hogwarts Headmaster from the 1800s, who was fast asleep.

I scuffed the toes of my boots together. What to do, what to do? I located a chair under a bunch of parchments and started shifting them so I could sit; Luna had done a bit more Healing on me after dinner, but the pressure building up behind my still-swelling eye was starting to develop into a crippling headache. A clump of dirtied black fabric fell to the ground, and when I picked it up gingerly by a corner, it fell into the shape of a traditional wizard's hat—but not just any old hat.

I gently prodded the Sorting Hat into its normal form, straightening its brim and brushing a long-dead spider off the point. Without thinking, I jammed it on my head.

_What in the name of Merlin do you want? _A small voice immediately said into my ear, sounding rather like my dad when I woke him up from a nap.

I jolted. I hadn't thought anything would actually happen. How were you supposed to talk to the Sorting Hat? Six years ago it'd just hummed in my ear and then pronounced me to be Gryffindor.

_A Gryffindor through and through, as is the rest of your family_, the Hat interrupted. _May I assist you with something, Ms. Weasley? _

I stumbled over my tongue. I hadn't actually thought about what I would say if the Hat happened to talk to me, maybe I didn't have a question to ask—and then the question I wanted answered sprang to the front of my mind.

_Why didn't I sort the new students? _the Hat echoed grumpily. _I should think that the answer to that would be fairly obvious to anyone who had listened to my song. _

"I listened!" I protested out loud. "I heard what you said about not wanting to divide us further, but I still just...I don't get it. Snape and the others sorted them anyway; you had to know that was going to happen."

_The placements decided by Severus Snape and the others are somewhat lacking_, the Hat conceded. _However, I could not, in good conscience, enact the Sorting myself. _

"'In good conscience!'" I burst out. "You're a bloody hat, you don't have a conscience."

_The founders of this school imbued me with their combined wisdom_, the Hat informed me, taking on a distinctly cool tone. _The consciousness I speak of is dedicated to protecting and furthering the best interests of their shared vision. It is a mission I share with the other objects left by the Founders. _

"The other objects..." I mused. "You mean like the Sword of Gryffindor." I flashed back to a whispered conversation I'd had with Harry, Ron, and Hermione the night before Bill and Fleur's disastrous wedding. As always, it had been difficult to fully follow their conversations once they got to talking about Harry's destiny and You-Know-Who and Dumbledore's instructions, but they mentioned that Dumbledore had attempted to leave the Sword of Gryffindor to Harry in his will. "But no one knows where the sword is now."

_Godric's sword makes hasty, impulsive decisions regarding its whereabouts, _the Hat commented in a tone disturbingly similar to one my mother used whenever my flighty and often intoxicated cousin Diana came up in conversation.

"You talk about the sword like it's a person. Like it makes conscious decisions."

_Are we not currently engaged in a conversation, Ms. Weasley? Do I not, every year save this one, make decisions about House placement that shape the lives of every student within these walls?_

My knees started to stiffen up. I struggled to my feet and began walking slowly through the room, taking mental inventory of the piles and boxes. "Yes, I suppose. I hadn't thought of it that way. I didn't mean to offend."

The sudden sound of footsteps coming up the stairs made me whirl on the spot, my hands shooting to my head to take the Sorting Hat off before I was caught wearing it.

_No! _ The hat protested loudly. _Take me with you! _

"Are you insane?" I whispered fiercely. "Snape'll murder me!"

_He'll never miss me in this mess of an office and I cannot stand lying in a crumpled heap, listening to that man conduct his terrible business while the finest Headmaster this school has ever seen lies dead. Take me!_

I flung myself across the room, stuffed the Sorting Hat into a side pocket of my bookbag, and had just settled back into the chair when the door sprung open and Severus Snape glided in, reading some paper in his hand. All the feelings I'd had the night of the feast came rushing back, all my anger and hatred and frustration and I once again took that massive gulp of air to prepare to verbally assault him when he suddenly looked up, clearly surprised by my presence.

"Ms. Weasley, what are you doing here?"

For half a second, the man looked unbelievable pathetic. I deflated as the objective side of my brain noticed little things about his appearance. Large, dark bags under his eyes clearly indicated exhaustion. His hair, even greasier than normal, hung limply and messily over his gaunt face. He was holding a large stack of light pink papers that could only have come from Umbridge, and, above all, he just seemed very...alone.

I shook my head. No. Absolutely not. No feeling sorry for Snape. He killed Dumbledore.

"High Inquisitor Umbridge sent me up here," I managed, keeping my voice remarkably level despite the virtual tempest of emotions raging beneath the surface. "Apparently the two of you haven't dreamed up a punishment inventive enough for my level of bad behavior yet."

A look of recognition crossed Snape's face as he swept around to his desk. "Ah. Yes. I suppose she's already sent students to assist Madame Pomfrey, Mr. Filch, and Professors Slughorn and Sprout?"

"Yes," I nodded. There was an expectant beat. "Yes, _sir_."

He tapped the end of a quill against a stack of papers and I gathered that he hadn't put any thought at all into what to do with me. While he thought, I wrestled with the dilemma of wanting to apologize for putting something else on his plate to deal with while simultaneously wanting to lunge across the table and tear his treacherous throat out.

"My predecessor," he began abruptly after a few seconds' tense silence, "left behind a rather large and rare phoenix when he...passed. I've not had the time to learn to care for it, and its roost has become increasingly messy and odorous in the past months. Your punishment, Ms. Weasley, is that I now pass the possession and care of this creature to you."

I actually felt my mouth drop open. "I'm sorry, you're _giving me Fawkes_?"

He nodded curtly. "The bird itself has been absent for several weeks, but it will undoubtedly return to its roost soon to molt. You are to remove its roost from my office immediately. You may relocate it to the Owlery, or, if you prefer, I am certain that the house elves and Gryffindor tower could easily make the appropriate accommodations. It is well equipped to find its own food, but I will see to it that you are provided a small monthly allowance for any additional food or care that it may require. Take the roost with you now, and leave."

I stared for another few seconds, then decided not to question this fit of insanity and mobilized myself. Snape returned to reading some documents on his desk as I waded through stacks of books to reach Fawkes' roost in a back corner. It was covered in droppings and burnt feathers and was much too large to carry, but a simple Scouring spell followed by a Shrinking charm allowed me to tuck it under an elbow and make my way back toward the door.

I stepped through the door, trying to keep disbelief from showing on my face. I was escaping what was supposed to be a horrendous punishment with the Sorting Hat stuffed in my bag and a phoenix as a pet.

"Don't look at me like that," I heard Snape say as the door began to swing shut behind me. "That bird doesn't like being in this office anymore." I turned to say that I hadn't been looking at him at all when a clear, familiar, quiet voice cut me off.

"Of course, Severus," said Albus Dumbledore. "Both Fawkes and I appreciate your concern."

The door snapped shut, almost catching me on the nose. I pressed my back against the wall, supporting myself while I waited for my heart to stop racing. It had been Dumbledore's portrait, of course. Of course. Just a painting.

[A/N] I know, it's been forever since I updated. But I'm newly motivated and full of ideas and hope to get this story back on track :)


	8. How to Train Your Phoenix

**Chapter Eight: How to Train Your Phoenix**

A quick visit down to Hagrid's hut and a brief stint in the library confirmed what I'd already suspected: Fawkes would not tolerate being housed in the Owlery like a common owl. Because Snape had mentioned it, I detoured down to the kitchens to consult the house elves.

"Of course, Miss!" a plump, jolly house elf named Chives exclaimed happily. "Twilla will be seeing t0 the arrangements right away." He chattered rapidly into the ear of a passing elf, who scampered off on a mission. Chives leaned closer to me and whispered conspiratorially, "Twilla is assisting in caring for dear Fawkes, Miss, back when Headmaster Dumbledore was in charge, but ever since Headmaster Snape took over, he is not letting a single house elf in his office. Rumor is that it's positively _filthy _in there."

I widened my eyes and nodded, lowering my voice to match his. "I was just there earlier today, Chives, and it's true. Positively filthy."

Chives tsk-tsked. "I would never speak ill of a Hogwarts Headmaster, Miss, of course I would never do such a thing, but it is being difficult to do one's job when one is not being permitted to do one's job."

I nodded again. "I understand completely. Thank you very much, Chives."

He beamed at me as we walked back toward the door. "Absolutely, Miss Weasley. Sirs Fred and George were always delighting to have in the kitchens and you are welcoming here as well." He pressed a bag of scones into my hands as I left and I munched one absently as I wandered back up to the Gryffindor tower, thinking through the sheer absurdity of my day. I'd been tortured by a girl I despised. I'd been threatened by a werewolf. I'd fought the Imperius curse (with what I thought was a decent amount of success). I'd conducted a Quidditch try-out. I'd been chastised by Umbridge. I'd stolen the Sorting Hat. I'd been alone with Snape, who had then given me Dumbledore's phoenix.

I laughed to myself as I thought about the series of faces Charlie would make once I wrote him this letter.

The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty when I finally made it back. I waved to Jimmy and Ritchie, who were still practically glowing over having made the team, and headed upstairs.

The scene inside my dorm room was in direct contrast to the quiet, calm room I'd just left. There were feathers (mostly white and gold, with a few red mixed in) flying everywhere, Julia had a sheet over her head and was curled up on her bed shrieking, Meg was arguing with a tiny house elf, the stone wall next to my bed seemed to be caving in on itself with a mysterious grinding sound, and, above all, a clearly distressed Fawkes was flopping awkwardly from canopy to canopy, smoking and cawing and leaving small flames in his wake.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" I demanded, rushing to put my things down on my bed.

Meg started to shout something, but the house elf—Twilla, I realized—launched herself up onto my bed and came level with my face.

"Phoenix Fawkes, Miss, Phoenix Fawkes!" she cried. "He is needing his roost to molt, Miss, he is needing it now!"

I tossed the roost to the middle of the room and restored it to its original size without asking questions. Fawkes landed roughly on it in a matter of seconds and immediately burst into flame as Julia shrieked again.

The fire lasted only a few seconds, and when the dull roar passed and Julia ran out of breath, a deafening silence fell over the room. I quietly _Aguamenti_-ed each small fire Fawkes had left behind. Fawkes' small, bald, wrinkly head then poked out of the still-smoking ashes, only to be covered again almost at once by a deluge of falling feathers.

The laughter burst out of me before I even realized that I found the situation funny. I collapsed on my bed, giggling hysterically. I heard Meg join in, followed by Julia, and finally a wheezy sort of chuckle that must have belonged to Twilla.

"What _happened_?" I gasped several minutes later, when the four of us were finally regaining some semblance of control.

Twilla bounced off the bed and over to Fawkes' roost. "Chives is telling Twilla that Headmaster Snape is giving Phoenix Fawkes to Miss Weasley," she said, stretching up on her tiptoes to gather the tiny, naked Fawkes in her hands. "Twilla is coming here to assist Miss Weasley, but Phoenix Fawkes was already being here."

"The bird showed up about twenty seconds before Twilla here," Meg continued, picking feathers out of her chin-length brown hair. "He started flopping around, setting things on fire, and Julia started that banshee-wailing, and the walls started moving and then Twilla popped in, and _Snape gave you Dumbledore's phoenix_?"

"It's been a weird day," I said simply. I sat up and Twilla deposited Fawkes into my lap. The fist-sized ball of naked flesh bumbled around my knees with none of the grace I remembered from Dumbledore's funeral or the dramatic rescue from the Chamber of Secrets when I was a First Year.

Julia disentangled herself from her sheets and flounced out of bed. "I'm going downstairs," she huffed, and left the room with a rather snooty flip of her hair. Several feathers flew out of it, which pretty much ruined the intended effect. Meg and I shared a look. Our room had always been split between me and Meg, and Julia and Alexa; when Alexa hadn't returned after the summer holiday, we knew Julia would cause tension. I shrugged at Meg. We'd have to deal with it later.

"Twilla," I called, "why's the wall doing that?"

Even as I spoke, the grinding sound stopped and the wall stilled. Meg got up to investigate.

"Phoenix Fawkes can't stay in the Owlery," Twilla explained as she swept Fawkes' ashes away and gathered loose feathers. "Phoenixes and owls are not mixing well, Miss. Twilla is thinking that Phoenix Fawkes is staying here with you, Miss Weasley, and Twilla is thinking that there is not much extra space in this room. So Twilla is asking the room to make a rookery for Phoenix Fawkes."

"Neat!" Meg's voice echoed curiously. "Ginny, come look!"

I cradled Fawkes in the crook of my elbow and followed Meg's voice through the caved-in section of the wall, which was now recognizable as a doorway. I stepped out into the middle of a forest.

Well, not exactly. But the room was clearly designed to replicate some section of forest somewhere. It was about five meters square, the floor was dirt, grass, and gravel, trees and vines grew along three of the walls, and a small waterfall gently trickled in corner. The fourth wall was completely transparent, giving us a spectacular view of the grounds, and the ceiling was open to the sky.

"Miss Weasley is pleased?" Twilla asked from the main room.

"It's brilliant!" I exclaimed, walking back into the dorm. "Thanks, Twilla!"

The house elf blushed right to the tips of her ears.

"Yeah, it's great—hey!" Meg stood just inside Fawkes' rookery, looking annoyed.

"What's wrong?"

She glared at me. "I can't get through, that's what's wrong."

"Miss Weasley is needing to give permission for anyone excepting herself and Phoenix Fawkes to enter that way," Twilla explained. "For security. Once Miss Weasley lets someone in, the door will remember them and be letting them in without permission."

I grinned at Meg. "Maybe I'll just leave you out there for the night. It's pretty, isn't it?"

She rolled her eyes and punched her fist against the invisible barrier; it made a noise like a trampoline springing back into place. "Har-dee-har-har."

"Margaret Elizabeth Dantley, you may enter the room," I said grandly, giving an exaggerated bow and flourish with my arms.

"Why thank you, Ginevra Molly Weasley," she responded in kind, curtsying her way through. On second thought, she darted through the door and back again, just to make sure.

Twilla levitated Fawkes' roost and set it down next to my bed, then snapped her fingers and a cushion, small bowl of water, and a chunk of what I assumed to be phoenix food appeared on the platform. "Until Phoenix Fawkes has his feathers, Miss Weasley, he can't go outside or hunt by himself. The kitchen elves will be sending his food to you every day at breakfast. Phoenixes are being independent creatures and are growing quickly, but if you are needing any further assistance, Miss Weasley, Miss Dantley, you can find me in the kitchens."

She gave each of us another small bow and disappeared.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the events of the day, I sank into my bed. Meg sat next to me, loosed my hair from its braid, and began gently combing it with her fingers. Fawkes burrowed around in my shirt near my bellybutton.

"So," Meg said after a few minutes of comfortable silence had passed between us, "are you going to explain that shiner, or are you going to make me ask?"

I heaved a great sigh and began walking Meg through my day—detention, Quidditch, the demerit meeting with Snape.

"Oh, and," I added once I'd explained Snape's unexpected gift. I swung myself out of bed, leaving a disgruntled Fawkes on my pillow, and pulled the Sorting Hat out of my bag. "I stole this from Snape's office."

"You _what_?" She shrieked. "Ginny, is this the _Sorting Hat_?"

"It asked me to!" I said defensively. I laid down again and Fawkes immediately began tangling himself in my hair.

She looked at me in exasperation and it was so reminiscent of Hermione looking at Ron and Harry that I nearly cried. I forcefully swallowed the memory. "Well, it did!"

"Okay, well..." she fiddled with the brim, then carefully set it on my bedside table. "What are we going to do with it?"

I shrugged. "Haven't really gotten that far. Bring it to D.A. meetings? I imagine it knows rather a lot about the castle, it could prove useful. Ack, Fawkes! Get off!"

The tiny phoenix had suddenly launched himself onto my face and stood on my forehead, staring down at me. Before Meg or I could snatch him, something wet dripped from his beak into my eye and he hopped away. A pleasant warmth spread through the injured side of my face and the vision in my left eye—which I hadn't even realized had been blurry—suddenly cleared. Meg stared in shock.

"Phoenix tears," I said matter-of-factly. "Right. That happens. Thanks, Fawkes."

Meg shook her head. "I still can't believe you stole the Sorting Hat."

"Like I said, weird day." I let out a huge yawn. "I think I'm going to go to sleep."

Meg stood up and stretched. "Okay. I'm going to hang out in the common room for a bit. See you in the morning for breakfast?"

I nodded sleepily as she left. I pushed myself upright to start getting ready for bed, depositing Fawkes on his roost as I passed. I found Arnold the Pygmy Puff rolling around on top of my trunk when I reached for my pajamas and carefully placed him next to Fawkes. They eyed each other curiously for a few minutes, then Arnold rolled right up to Fawkes and made that curious whirring sound he made when content. Fawkes poked him with his beak once, but seemed happy with the arrangement.

I changed quickly and had just fallen back into bed when a familiar tapping on the window startled me. I managed to get up one last time to let Pig into the room. He hopped around while I took the parchment from his leg, then settled him next to Fawkes and Arnold on the roost. They both eyed the newcomer suspiciously, but everyone seemed to basically get along. I fell into bed and unrolled Charlie's letter.

_Ginny,_

_ The Welshie is proving to be more difficult to handle than we thought. He doesn't seem to like any of the other dragons—nearly killed a Ridgeback the other day—but he'll have to settle eventually. My hair is another matter entirely, I think Mum must have used bewitched scissors or something, it refuses to grow and repels all spells intended to speed it along. _

_ The news about Hogwarts is worrying, but I can't say that it isn't to be expected. With Snape in charge, things are bound to get pretty awful. I'd tell you to stay out of trouble, but I imagine Mum and Dad have already covered that front. As for Amycus Carrow, __**be careful**__. I've heard stories of some of the things he did the last time You-Know-Who was in power, and it seems like he's got no conscience to speak of. He has a sister, too, Alecto—watch out for her as well. _

_ All I can really tell you is to tread with caution. The world outside Hogwarts is a very dangerous place right now, and we were all foolish to think that Hogwarts itself would be protected from that. _

_ Love and miss you, Gin. Keep your chin up._

_ Charlie_

I carefully refolded the letter, then flopped onto my back. Kind of...useless. I felt bad for thinking that, but I'd come to expect words of wisdom and advice from Charlie that I couldn't think up on my own.

_Watch out for the Carrows, try not to piss anyone off—I know that already_, I thought. I touched the recently healed side of my face. _I definitely know that already._

I was just dozing off to the sounds of my three pets getting acquainted as I planned out the various ways I'd like to introduce Amycus Carrow to Charlie's Welshie when I noticed a spot on my pillow that was warmer than the rest. I stuffed my hand under the fluff and pulled out my enchanted D.A. Galleon. It took me a few seconds to focus on the tiny, glowing red letters:

_Weds, 9/10, 8pm_.


	9. The Beginning

**Chapter Nine: The Beginning**

The days until the first D.A. meeting were tense, to say the least. Neville met up with Michael Corner late Sunday night and they crept around the castle after dark, painting the words "Dumbledore's Army, Still Recruiting" on the walls and Snape looked so angry at breakfast that I momentarily worried his hair would actually catch fire. Whispers—quickly hushed whenever a teacher walked by—of the fabled intra-Hogwarts Dark Arts fighting group seemed to linger in every hallway. McGonagall returned a preliminary paper on the theory of Animagism with "Caution, Restraint, Tact" written and underlined across the top. Word of my new pet had somehow ("I'm going to _murder_ Julia," Meg hissed) gotten out and everyone wanted to know what Harry Potter's ex-girlfriend was doing with Dumbledore's phoenix. I somehow wound up breaking up a fight between a bunch of First Year Slytherins—including the tiny blonde girl I recognized from the Sorting-that-wasn't—and the next day, rumors that I was a Slytherin sympathizer abounded.

None of this drama, however, managed to keep me from earning another detention with Carrow within the first five minutes of Tuesday's Dark Arts class.

"I'm sorry!" I shouted at Neville across the common room that night. "Crabbe had a Fifth Year Ravenclaw upside down by her ankle and kept banging her into things and Carrow was saying that the only was I could stop him was to _Crucio_ him and he was standing very close to me and, you know...bang," I finished weakly, accenting the sound by imitating a small explosion with my hands.

"You're going to get yourself killed, damnit, Ginny," Neville yelled back. "You're the captain of the bloody Quidditch team, you should be setting a better example."

"_You_ set a better example, you're a bloody prefect!" I shrieked. "I heard about you getting in a fistfight with Crabbe right outside Alecto's office."

"_I _didn't try to blow up a teacher!"

"I didn't _try_ to either, it just—sort of—happened!"

We ended up nose to nose in front of the fireplace, staring each other down, breathing heavily, uncomfortably aware that half our House was staring at us as well. Neville looked around at all of them warily, then seized my wrist and dragged me up the boys' staircase.

"Neville, what are you-?"

"Be quiet," he hissed between gritted teeth. He towed me unceremoniously up several flights of stairs and into the Seventh Year boys' room, which looked like a slightly more masculine version of the room that Meg, Julia and I shared. Without the phoenix rookery, of course. I tried not to think about the three beds that were missing.

"Luke, could I have the room for a few minutes, please?" Neville asked. I started when Lucas responded "Yeah, sure," and walked past me (I hadn't even noticed that he was in the room), and tried not to read too much into the knowing look he gave as he passed. Neville carefully shut the door behind him and _Muffliato_-d the room. I took a deep breath, preparing to launch back into our previous argument, but Neville merely collapsed onto the bed I assumed was his in near exhaustion, arms over his head.

"What are we going to do, Ginny?" He asked through his elbows.

I crossed the room and sat next to him. "What do you mean?"

He pulled his arms from his face and folded them behind his head. "You know. All of this. Snape being Headmaster, the Carrows, You-Know-Who. Without Harry and Ron and Hermione, what are we going to do? How are we supposed to fight this?"

I sighed. "I dunno. I think we just have to keep trying. Little things. We're the Hogwarts Resistance."

He snorted a laugh. "We're kids. The D.A. is a dozen school kids who think they stand a chance against the most powerful collection of wizards in history."

"We're not attempting to single-handedly overthrow You-Know-Who's reign," I said. "I think we just...aim to make Snape's life a little more difficult. Let them know that not everyone in this school is okay with what's going on."

"We're making ourselves targets," he countered. "Us and our families. And most of the D.A. isn't even of age. Hell, _you_'re not even of age."

"I don't think that can really matter anymore," I said quietly. "If someone's brave enough to stand up and fight, they're going to do it whether they're in a covert group of kids or not. It's just better to work as a team."

He heaved a giant sigh and sat up. "All right. My period of feeling hopeless is over. We should make a game plan. You know, figure out what we want to teach the D.A. for the next few weeks. Harry and Hermione were always a few steps ahead because, well, it was Harry and Hermione, but we might have to work a little harder."

I nodded, pulled my D.A. Galleon out of my pocket, and set to work sending a message.

"What're you doing?" Neville asked as he produced his old Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks.

"Asking Luna to meet us here for a bit," I explained. Neville wrinkled his forehead. "Don't look at me like that. She's a bit off, yes, but she's bloody brilliant and she thinks of things that the rest of us don't. We need her."

Neville shrugged and started flipping through a book. "All right. But if she asks me about the Wee Crithrops again, I'm out."

* * *

8 o'clock the next day could not come fast enough. Neville, Luna and I paced the hallway outside the Room of Requirement at 7:30 and spent the next half hour setting up for our meeting and getting reacquainted with the room—the practice area full of cushions, the sitting area with armchairs and snacks, the Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Gryffindor banners that hung overhead. We set Dennis Creevy on lookout duty around 7:50 and he ushered people in a few at a time to avoid suspicion.

I looked around the room just before the meeting actually started, mentally taking inventory. Me, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, Colin, Dennis, and Meg represented Gryffindor; Michael, Terry, Padma, Anthony, and Luna for Ravenclaw; Susan, Hannah, Ernie, Justin, and Zacharias for Hufflepuff. Eighteen kids. Eighteen kids against an army of Death Eaters.

"Okay," Neville said suddenly, interrupting my depressing thoughts. The room fell quiet and fifteen pairs of eyes turned to focus on me, Neville, and Luna. "Okay. We all know I'm not Harry Potter. Ginny is not her brother. Luna's not Hermione. But we're going to fight anyway. I don't know how well this is going to work out. But we're going to fight anyway. We...Ginny?" He looked at me helplessly. I cleared my throat.

"What Neville's trying to say is that we're not sure how much we can actually _teach_ you," I took over. "It's going to have to be more of a team effort. Anyone who learns any useful spell will be welcome to lead a lesson on it, and we'll keep working on the things that Ha—the things we learned last year. Luna's going to start teaching Healing spells, too."

"We also need to recruit new members," Neville chimed back in, looking more certain. "If you've got a friend in your House or in a class that you think is..._sympathetic _to our cause, this is how we think we should go about inducting new members: bring their name up at a meeting. The group gets the following week to watch that person, ask about them, etc. We talk about it and vote at the next meeting, only accepting unanimous decisions."

"This is _our_ school," I concluded quietly. "We might just be kids and we might not have any idea what we're doing, but this is our school. And we're going to fight for it."

Neville and I looked at each other, then out at the group. No one said anything for a few beats, then Luna clapped her hands and barked, "Okay! Break up into pairs and start reviewing Stunning and Disarming spells! Go!"

Neville and I looked at each other again, startled, but the rest of the D.A. obeyed without question. Everyone was just settling into pairs and sparks beginning to fly when the door swung open suddenly and everyone in the room turned to face it, wands out. A terrified looking First Year wearing Slytherin colors stumbled through the entrance—the tiny blonde from Sorting, the one who'd been in a fight with the other Slytherin First Years a few days before. A Stunning spell whizzed by her head and exploded on the wall behind her and, from the looks of things, she very nearly wet herself.

"Hold!" I shouted, putting my hands up. "Who did that?"

"Sorry," Seamus mumbled. "Got excited."

I glared at him, only to notice Ernie stalking up toward the girl out of the corner of my eye.

"Talk," he demanded, holding his wand a centimeter from her forehead. "Quickly."

"Ernie!" I chastised, crossing the room in three steps and wrenching his wand away. "You're scaring her."

"Scaring her? She's a Slytherin!"

The girl looked at me with big, terrified, teary eyes and I looked over my shoulder to Neville. "Help?"

"Wands down, guys," Neville called. "Ginny'll talk to her and let us know what's going on."

As Neville marshaled the rest of the group—most of them protesting audibly—away to a different part of the room to keep practicing, I led the girl to the small sitting area the Room of Requirement had come up with today and settled into an armchair. She perched on the edge of a stool, shaking all over, looking nervously over her shoulder.

"I'm Ginny," I announced. She started, looked around wildly, then made eye contact with me.

"I-I-I—," she started, then stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I know. After you stopped the fight on Monday I started asking who you were."

"And your name is...?" I prompted.

"Oh, right! I'm Bailey Norren. Slytherin," she added, plucking miserably at her tie. "My mum wanted to homeschool me, but instead, here I am."

"Okay, Bailey, what are you doing here? How did you find us?"

"Well, I saw the graffiti on the walls, all that stuff about Dumbledore's Army recruiting and stuff, so I asked around until I figured out what Dumbledore's Army was and what you guys did. I don't care if I'm only eleven, I know what's right and what's wrong and I know that what's happening here at Hogwarts isn't right. So I asked and asked and asked until someone told me that the DA practiced in the Room of Requirement." She said all of this very very quickly and without making eye contact, then gasped in a great deal of air and looked up at me nervously.

"Okay, Bailey," I said, running back through everything she'd said in my mind. "I have a few questions."

She looked terrified, but managed a shaky nod.

"First, that fight that I interrupted. What were you fighting about?"

Bailey picked up a pillow and started twisting its fringe. "We'd just come from Dark Arts, and Laird and Dames and June and them were saying that we should find a few Hufflepuffs to practice on, and I don't know, that just didn't seem…anyways, I said something and Laird said that maybe they'd practice on me instead and he grabbed my arm and I don't know, I just got so angry, and then there was this little explosion and then everyone was shouting and then you showed up…" She trailed off miserably. "I guess I was just mad because Laird and them can be right little pricks about things like Houses and Blood Status."

I grinned. "Same thing I would've done, Bailey, honest. I've got the same problem with having an unpredictable temper. Now, second question: who are you getting your information from? My name, what the DA is, where we practice—who knows about this?"

Bailey looked at her shoes and mumbled something into the pillow.

"What?"

She heaved a sigh. "The house elves. One of them, Dobby, noticed me wandering around during lunch instead of eating. I explained that I don't really get along with anyone in my house and don't like spending more time with them than I have to, so I grab food quickly and then walk around the halls. He said that it was silly for me to be by myself and showed me how to get into the kitchens, so I spend most of my meals there. The house elves know basically everything that happens in this school, and once they decided that I was an okay sort they started filling me in on some things. They _do_ clean this room after you all use it, you know. All last year. And they make the food." She gestured to the stack of pastries and mug of hot tea that sat on a little table to my right, and a small light went on in my head. Of course the house elves made it. Obviously.

"Okay, Bailey," I said thoughtfully. "I'm going to go talk to the group for a few minutes, why don't you stay over here and have some tea?"

I walked back to where people were practicing and gathered them together, briefly explaining the situation.

"Hell no," Seamus said immediately. "She's a Slytherin. Can't be trusted." There were general murmurs of agreement throughout the group.

"The Sorting Hat didn't put her there," I protested. "And she hates everyone in her house. She knows about us because she hangs out with the house elves during meals so she doesn't have to sit with her house."

"She already knows about us anyway," Luna said dreamily. "What are we going to do, let her wander around the castle knowing who we are and when we meet and not let her join?"

"This is what Memory Charms are made for," Zacharias Smith grumbled.

Michael immediately buffeted him around the head. "She's a First Year, you prick. You don't perform a Memory Charm on a First Year."

"She's a _Slytherin_," Seamus said again.

"She didn't get a fair Sorting!" I repeated.

"So ask the Sorting Hat," Meg interrupted. The group fell silent and all eyes turned to her. She flushed and spoke quickly. "I mean, you have the Sorting Hat back in our room, Ginny, why not bring it here and see if it'll Sort her?"

All eyes turned to me. "You have the Sorting Hat?" Neville asked weakly.

"It's a long story," I said. "Yes, I have the Sorting Hat. But it's pretty set on not Sorting anyone again and besides, I don't think we should be basing membership solely on House affiliation. There's nothing inherently evil about Slytherin—no, no, be quiet and listen—there isn't. People don't get Sorted into Slytherin because they're You-Know-Who supporters and like to torture woodland creatures, they get Sorted into Slytherin because they're ambitious. A little ambition might not be a bad thing."

"You know," Susan Bones said slowly, "it might be pretty helpful to have someone in the Slytherin common room."

Seamus' eyes lit up. "She could sneak us in so we can swipe stuff!"

"Or she can just listen," Neville countered. "Who knows what she might overhear?"

No one else seemed to have anything to say. The thought of getting inside information on the Slytherins was too tempting.

"Okay, then," I said. "All those in favor of accepting Bailey Norren into the D.A.?"

Eighteen hands raised, and I turned to call Bailey over. She walked cautiously to my side, still fidgeting with her tie.

"Bailey," I said, "it's my pleasure to welcome you to Dumbledore's Army."

"Really?" she squealed, looking around the circle. "Really? Thank you, thank you!"

"Look!" Susan interrupted, pointing at the ceiling, where a banner had suddenly appeared and unfurled.. Next to the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff tapestries, the green and silver of Slytherin now hung proudly on the wall of the Room of Requirement. Bailey positively glowed.

"All right, everyone," Neville said over the murmur that was rising, "back to practicing. Colin, Dennis, want to show Bailey what we're up to?" The always excited and eager Creevy brothers sprang forward at once to start filling Bailey in. Neville looked at me sideways. "You have the Sorting Hat."

I waved my hand dismissively. "No big deal."

He rolled his eyes and went to correct someone's hand position.

* * *

"Ginny? What's wrong?"

An hour and a half later, after most everyone had cleared out of the room, Neville found me standing beneath the House banners, staring up at them.

"Oh, no, it's nothing. I just...I feel like this is somehow what Dumbledore would have wanted. All four Houses. Even if it's just one First Year."

Neville chuckled. "I bet she'll be dating Dennis Creevy by the end of the month. Did you see him running around trying to catch her each time she was Stunned?"

"I'm serious, Nev," I protested. "Remember what the Sorting Hat said this year, and even the last few years, about lines that divide us and that being what You-Know-Who's trying to do? I feel like this somehow makes us stronger. Like we're fighting him just by, you know, being united."

"The Sorting Hat that you have in your bedroom? Yes, I remember what it said. Don't get all existential and weepy on me now, Weasley, we've got a war to fight."

I shoved him playfully in the shoulder and he stumbled a few steps directly into Luna. They both fumbled a little and ended up basically hugging, which they released almost immediately after looking in each other's eyes for a split second longer than absolutely necessary. I smiled to myself and followed them out of the room.

[A/N] Two chapters in a day, just to prove my love. And severe boredom. Anyway, I'm really glad you guys liked the last chapter! Also, I'm looking for suggestions of what the Animagus form of each student in Ginny's Transfiguration class (Neville, Parvati, Ginny, Lucas, Julia, Edward, Colin, and Brighton) should be, so let me know if you've got any bright ideas :)


	10. Friends and Strangers

**Chapter Ten: Friends and Strangers**

"Stop that," I said crossly.

"Stop what?" Lucas asked innocently.

I sighed and put my quill down. "Stop with the dreamy brown eyes and the gravity-defying hair and that smile that makes it look like we're sharing some sort of secret. D'you think I don't hear the way Parvati and Lavender and Meg and Bianca and every other stinking female in this school go on about you? This is not a chance for you to wrap me around your finger the way you have everyone else tied up; this is us doing the Transfiguration homework we were supposed to have done three days ago."

He stuck his tongue out at me. "I can't help that I'm a nice guy. And my gravity-defying hair is a natural thing that just sort of happens when I wake up, so you can't fault me for that."

"Whatever. The point is that you, Lucas, have a girlfriend and I'm...unavailable, so stop whatever you're up to and focus for the next half hour, okay?"

In response, he leaned onto the back two legs of his chair and crossed his feet on the table we'd commandeered in the corner of the Gryffindor common room. "You're a tough nut to crack, Ginevra."

"Call me 'Ginevra' one more time and you'll find out just how tough," I told my textbook, refusing to give him the benefit of eye contact.

"You keep calling me Lucas, I'm going to keep calling you Ginevra and annoying you instead of doing the homework."

I plunked my forehead down on my book. "Why me? There are six other people in our Transfiguration class, why me?"

"You're just uncommonly lucky."

"I have six brothers. How do you manage to be more obnoxious than all of them put together?"

"I'm uncommonly talented. Your answer to number four is wrong, by the way."

I turned my head to glare at him, but he was apparently very absorbed in watching a game of Gobstones two Second Years were playing over by the fireplace. The flickering light threw his features into relief and I suddenly noticed the deep bags under his eyes, cut into a face that somehow seemed pale under its usual tan.

"Are you feeling okay?" I asked abruptly.

"Yeah, fine, why?" He responded without looking away from the game.

"I don't know, you just...you have bags under your eyes. You look tired."

"You don't exactly look like you've been getting eight hours of beauty sleep a night either," he pointed out, turning back to me. "Ginny, we've got basically the same course loads, so you know how much homework I have, plus I've got N.E.W.T.S. at the end of this year which is a whole bunch more studying, and I'm at all the same Quidditch practices you are. We've been at this for a month now, has there been a day yet when you didn't wake up completely exhausted?"

I considered it. "No, I guess not."

"Exactly. We're in the same boat. So stop looking at the bags under my 'dreamy brown eyes,' because they're not going anywhere."

I straightened up and rubbed at my own eyes. "Hard to believe it's the end of September already. It feels...well, I'm not sure if it feels like we just got here yesterday or if it's been way longer than that."

"How d'you mean?"

"I don't know. You don't know what Hogwarts was like before this year, so it's kind of hard to explain, but I've had detention with Amycus Carrow four weekends straight and each time I'm pretty damn sure I'm not going to make it out of that dungeon alive. Every day seems like it takes a million years because I've got so many things to do and worry about—our Quidditch team, homework, demerits, detentions, trying to keep the younger kids out of harm's way, everything that's going on outside the castle. But I'm so busy worrying about those things and getting it all done that the time just seems to fly by."

He nodded and started flicking through his textbook, presumably looking for the answer to one of our homework questions.

I chewed on a fingernail, watching him search. In the past month, Lucas and I had spent a lot of time together between Quidditch practices and being Transfiguration partners, and I was no closer to feeling like I actually understood anything about him. He could be incredibly arrogant and was excellent at avoiding answering personal questions, but he paid very close attention to everything going on around him and could apparently read me like a book. It made our weekly joint Transfiguration assignments—reporting what we'd learned about the other—very unbalanced.

I halfway had my mouth open when the portrait hole swung open and Neville tumbled in, followed by the rest of the prefects. Neville walked over to me and Lucas quickly while Meg and Parvati got the attention of the rest of the students in the common room.

"First Hogsmeade visit is this weekend," Neville said breathlessly, talking under Meg and Parvati making the same announcement. "Saturday, October fourth."

I felt my eyes light up. We hadn't been able to arrange a D.A. meeting since the first one nearly four weeks ago. "Hog's Head?"

Lucas looked back and forth between the two of us, clearly trying to connect the dots. "Someone going to tell me what's going on?"

"Oh, we just, er, really like the barman at Hog's Head," Neville said, still smiling that dead-giveaway grin.

"Plus the best butterbeer in the whole village," I added.

Lucas looked unconvinced, but I didn't have time to work on the story any further as a loud popping sound emanated from the center of the common room and Twilla the house elf appeared, holding Fawkes in one hand and Bailey Norren in the other. Both Bailey and the phoenix were squawking unhappily with the situation.

"Twilla? What's going on?" I stood up and walked to them, aware that everyone in the room was looking at us.

"Phoenix Fawkes is showing up in the kitchens again," Twilla informed me, stuffing the still-protesting phoenix in my arms.

"Aw, Fawkes!" I chided. The phoenix's feathers had sprouted a few days earlier and had been accompanied by the return of his ability to do the phoenix equivalent of Apparation; he'd been found in Great Hall twice, sitting on Hagrid's hut once, in the kitchen several times and earlier that day I'd walked into Charms to find him sitting on my desk. "This unruly-teenager thing you've got going on has got to stop."

"Miss Norren," Twilla continued, transferring possession of Bailey's arm into my other hand, "is sitting in the kitchens for several hours every night and being a nuisance to Chives."

"I'm not a nuisance!" Bailey protested, wrenching her arm free. "I sit quietly in a corner and do my homework and I don't bother anyone."

"Nuisance," Twilla repeated. "Chives is asking that Miss Weasley handles Miss Norren from now on." With another loud crack, Twilla disappeared, leaving me holding an immature phoenix and a First Year Slytherin in a room full of confused Gryffindors.

"Uh, c'mon, Bailey," I said, tugging at her sleeve. "Let's go upstairs and talk."

"Ginny?" Jimmy Peakes asked. "Why did a house elf just ask you to take care of a Slytherin?"

"She's just a kid, Jim," Lucas said lazily from behind me. "Back off."

I pulled Bailey after me and took the stairs two at a time, eager to be away from the prying eyes. Once we reached my room, Bailey flung herself petulantly on Meg's bed. I deposited Fawkes back on his roost and he immediately pounced playfully on Arnold; the two seem to have adopted each other and Pig as long-lost brothers.

"All right, kid," I said, settling myself cross-legged on my bed, "what's going on?"

She mumbled something incoherent into her pillow.

"Sorry, what was that?"

She lifted her head. "I hate my house! All of them! They're pricks and jerks and mean and I hate them!"

"So you hide in the kitchens all night? Hogwarts does have libraries, you know."

"You don't know what it's like!" She exclaimed. "You get to live here with all the other Gryffindors and be friends with Luna and Susan and everyone but because I'm a bloody Slytherin I have to act like I don't know any of you so no one suspects anything!"

"I'm sorry, Bailey, but we really can't do anything about that," I said, looking at her tiny form fondly. She was headstrong and fiery and rather a lot like myself. "We're having a D.A. meeting on Saturday, I'll talk to the group and see if anyone has any ideas."

She sat up and narrowed her eyes at me. "What, can't I come?"

"It's at Hogsmeade, you have to be a Third Year to visit," I said apologetically. She shrieked and threw herself facedown again. I laughed, walked over, and offered her a hand. "C'mon, I'll walk you back to your common room."

"Can't I stay here for a little while longer?" She whined. "I'll be quiet, I promise."

"My entire house is downstairs wondering what you're doing here in the first place," I said. "Not a chance. Come on."

She grumbled, but followed me downstairs. We walked quickly through the common room, keeping our heads down, but once out in the hallway she burst into another rant about her fellow First Year Slytherins which was alternately hilarious and concerning. We were halfway to the Slytherin common room (according to Bailey, who seemed to be taking the scenic route) when a voice that never failed to make my skin crawl echoed through the stone corridor.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Amycus Carrow stepped out from behind a pillar, accompanied by Daphne and Blaise. "My favorite Gryffindor has befriended a Slytherin?"

"I'm not her friend," I countered immediately, trying to inject disgust into my voice and contort my face to mask. It was easy to fake disgust when Daphne was around. I pushed Bailey's shoulder none too gently, propelling her over to Blaise. "She was wandering around near the Gryffindor tower and I'm returning her to where she belongs. Trying to get First Years to spy on me, huh, Daphne?"

Bailey looked hurt and confused as Daphne cackled. "As if your life is interesting enough to spy on."

"Children, children," Carrow sighed. "Can't we all get along? I have other places to be tonight, try to get to bed soon." He stalked away down the corridor, leaving a slightly off-putting stench behind him. I breathed a sigh of relief once he was out of eyesight; while I'd thankfully had no one-on-one time with him since the beginning of the year, that scene between the two of us after the first Dark Arts class still made frequent appearances in my nightmares.

"At least my life doesn't involve shagging the Head Boy," I said once I was sure Carrow was well beyond earshot. "I suppose Carrow caught you at it? Maybe even joined in? Seems like something you'd enjoy, Daphne."

I watched her smooth her ridiculously curly blonde hair, wondering what had possessed me to say that. It wasn't like I needed any more drama to my life.

Blaise sighed. "Come on, Bailey. Let's leave the girls to their catfight. No magic in the corridors," he added to Daphne. He led Bailey down the hall; I watched their retreating figures until I had no choice but to turn back to Daphne.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" She said immediately. "What makes you think anyone cares about anything you do?"

A feeling of déjà vu sprang up in my stomach. "Tell me about it, Daph," I sighed. "If I let you prattle on about it for a few minutes, will you just let me go to bed?"

In answer, she took a step closer. "Everyone knows that you're the main person behind this stupid Dumbledore's Army stunt. All it's going to do is get you killed. Hopefully. So please, keep at it."

I rolled my eyes, struggling to keep external calm as a familiar heat balled beneath the déjà vu. This was remarkably similar to that conversation with Umbridge, and I hadn't had a month of pent-up rage and frustration for that conversation. I realized my fist was clenched around my wand. _This is what she wants, _a small, rational voice at the back of my mind said. _She's trying to make you angry so you'll do magic and get in trouble_.

She took another step closer and I could feel her breath on my face as she said, "Nothing you do matters. So play your silly little games and hide away in the Gryffindor common room, but don't you _dare _insult what me and Blaise have."

I laughed out loud at that. "'What you and Blaise have'? What do you and Blaise have, Daphne? True love, is that what it is? He's certainly a git, so I suppose the two of you are made for each other."

"Just because _your _boyfriend is probably dead in a ditch somewhere-!"

She didn't get any further because I slugged her across the chin, putting all my weight into it, the way Fred and George had taught me. She looked up at me from the floor, breathing heavily, a dribble of blood coming from one corner of her mouth. "I'm going to tell Carrow about that."

"Fine," I hissed, squatting down so that our faces were level. "Tell him. Tell everyone. Land me in detention every Saturday for the rest of my life. There's a war on, I've got a lot to lose, and I have a bad temper. You need to learn that I'm not a person to be screwed with."

I stood up, every muscle in my body shaking, and walked down the hall. My hand was throbbing. I made it up three flights of stairs and down two corridors before I slid down a wall, put my head to my knees, and tried to stifle the sobs that were threatening to overtake me.

"He's alive," I said out loud. "He has to be alive. I know he's alive."

"Of course he's alive!" said a voice that was startlingly close by. I looked up to see Luna sitting directly across the hall from me, wearing something that vaguely resembled a hot air balloon on her head.

"Luna? What are you doing out here?"

"You're just down the hall from the Ravenclaw common room," she informed me, pointing. "I believe it's you whose location needs explaining."

I heaved a sigh. "Must've gotten turned around. I was upset."

"I heard." She nodded sagely and her hot air balloon hat let off a small puff of steam. "But you mustn't worry, he's very much alive."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Why, because the Hondoplume's weathervane is still working," she said, looking at me as though I'd sprouted a second head.

I leaned my head back against the wall. "We're not talking about the same person, are we?"

"Are we not discussing Willus Chablon, the Lost King of the Agbers?" She fed a piece of her hair through a pipe in her hat.

"He wasn't really who I had in mind, no."

Luna got up and came to sit next to me, linking our arms. "Well, in that case, I'm positive that Harry is still alive as well."

"And how do you know that one? Someone's mailbox get knocked over?"

She tinkled a laugh. "Don't be silly. No, it's been in Daddy's paper. For weeks now. All sorts of people, historians and journalists and such, are writing in and everyone agrees that if Harry were to be killed, You-Know-Who would be broadcasting it everywhere because it'd be so demoralizing. You should really read more, you know."

"I've heard that before," I said, smiling at her. "Thanks, Luna."

"Of course, darling." She picked up a piece of my hair and poked it through the pipe in her hat. I let her tug it out of my scalp and listened to her babble on about the Lost King of the Agbers late into the night.

[A/N] Thanks for the reviews and PMs! Opinions are always welcome. I know that the past couple chapters haven't been super action-packed, but believe me, that's about to change. I've got a whole bunch up my sleeve.


	11. New Questions

**Chapter Eleven: New Questions**

With the promise of a D.A. meeting that weekend, I put extra effort into keeping most of my toes from crossing the line and managed to complete the week without getting a detention from Carrow. My hourglass still weighed in unfavorably (although the modest 61 demerits I'd accumulated by dinner on Friday was by far the least I'd had so far that term), but sheer numbers of delinquents such as myself had forced Umbridge to allow the punishments to be made up at any point between Friday night and Monday morning. All I had to do was report to Filch for two hours of filing duty before Monday's classes. An additional pleasant surprise came with the posting of the autumn Quidditch schedule: we'd be opening the season that Saturday night against Ravenclaw.

* * *

As instructed through a series of long and complicated Galleon messages, the D.A. gathered bit by bit in the Hog's Head. By 1pm, everyone was there and carefully sipping Butterbeer or hot cocoa from a slightly grimy mug; the bartender/owner, Abe, grunted that it was fine for us to push several small tables into a corner and cluster for privacy.

We were forced to admit that we didn't have much to do at this meeting. The Hog's Head obviously wasn't a place we could practice spells without drawing unwanted attention from the Death Eaters patrolling the streets, and we had no concrete plans, so the meeting quickly dissolved into complaining about Umbridge, Snape, the Carrows, homework, and exams. It might not have been productive, but it was the first time in weeks that I felt I could relax. After an hour of venting our frustrations, I re-called for attention.

"Last thing on the agenda," I said, double-checking the list. "New members. Any candidates?"

Susan Bones raised her hand "Owen Cauldwell and Laura Madley? They're both Fourth Year Hufflepuffs, so they're still a little young, but Owen's got great aim with a Butterfingers Hex and his older brother is on the run from Death Eaters; Laura's quiet but wicked brilliant with potions."

"Plus they're been dating since their First Year and are basically inseparable," added Hannah Abbott with a roll of her eyes.

"Owen, Laura," Neville repeated, jotting their names at the bottom of my paper. "Anyone else?"

"Jenny Cortland," Padma and Parvati chorused.

"Ravenclaw's Quidditch Captain?" I asked in surprise, feeling my eyes narrow involuntarily. The Seventh Year had been my mark in a few games the previous years and neither of us had played a very clean game; I'd walked away with a bloody, broken nose and she'd received a black eye in return. I slid my gaze to Michael, who was also on Ravenclaw's Quidditch team; he shrugged apologetically. Jenny, we both knew, was fierce, determined, and clever—but she also had a history of being a loose cannon; in a memorable Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin match a few years earlier, she'd chucked a Quaffle directly at an opposing Beater so hard that he actually fell off his broom. She was also one of the few students who was close to keeping up with me in terms of demerits. The fact that she and Michael had started dating a few weeks after he and I broke up also contributed to putting her high on my list of not-super-well-liked people.

"Also Ryan and Annie, Gryffindor's Fifth Year prefects," Meg volunteered. "Me, Neville, Parvati, and Colin work with them and they seem to have their heads screwed on straight, plus Annie's the top of her class."

"I think Demi Robbins and Natalie MacDonald would be good, too," I added. "They're my other Chasers and I know them both pretty well."

Neville's quill paused and he looked up. "Is that it?"

"Actually," I said slowly, pulling a piece of parchment from my pocket. "Bailey Norren asked me to bring up a name. Don't freak out too much, but she wants us to look at Graham Pritchard."

As expected, our crowded little area practically exploded with protests. "Guys, guys, guys!" I called, raising my voice through the noise. "She's not saying we have to accept him, she just asked us to look. Apparently he's one of the only people in Slytherin who's been less of a jackass and more of a human being toward her. He's a Fourth Year, so he should be in that cross-level Charms class with the Fifth Year Gryffindors and Third Year Hufflepuffs, so ask people in your House, okay?"

"And everyone be careful," Neville added in a low voice. Looks of outrage around the tables were replaced with looks of concern tempered by annoyance. "I mean it. I know nothing catastrophic has happened yet, and for the most part we've been okay about keeping our heads down, but Umbridge or Snape could come up with some new tactic or rule any day. We're still learning how to play this game."

The meeting broke up into pairs and trios getting ready to walk back up to the castle. Michael caught my eye again as I tied my hair back in preparation for the October wind and jerked his head toward an abandoned corner of the room. I left Luna telling Neville and Meg about the Lost King of the Agbers and walked over to him.

"I didn't know they were going to bring Jenny's name up," he said before I even got close. "Honestly. It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you."

"I'm not mad," I cut him off. "Even if you had asked them to get Jenny in, she's your girlfriend and-."

"She's not, though," he interrupted. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We broke up toward the end of last year. Kept it pretty quiet because...well, you know. Other things were happening."

"Oh," I said, slightly taken aback. I hadn't seen that one coming. "I'm...uh, sorry to hear that."

"No big deal," he said. "We weren't really that compatible."

We stood in awkward silence as the rest of the D.A. filtered out the door and I processed this new information. It wasn't like I still had feelings for Michael—we'd broken up a long time ago, and in truth he'd always been more of a distraction from my feelings for Ha—_Harry_—than anything else, but news of his recent single-ness still gave me pause for some unknown reason. I pushed those feelings down out of shame and gave him a winning smile.

"Well, I'll see you tonight at the game, then? We're going to slaughter you."

He blinked through the surprise and laughed. "Keep telling yourself that. Jenny's been running practices like a drill sergeant; I think you're in for it this time."

"I guess we'll find out on the pitch, won't we?" I retorted, turning to leave. He caught my elbow and pulled me back around to face him.

"One more thing," he said, putting his serious face back on. "I hear you're partners with the new guy, Lucas Callahan, for the Animagus stuff in Transfiguration."

"Yeah, what of it?" My words were unintentionally aggressive.

"Just...be careful, okay?" He laughed at the look on my face and held his hands up defensively. "I know, I know, I'm your ex-boyfriend and you can take care of yourself and all. But I've heard things. Things that I don't really like. So just...be careful."

I squinted up at him. "What sorts of things?"

He sighed and slung an arm around my shoulders, walking me toward the door. "Oh, Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. Never mind. See you tonight, okay?"

As soon as we were out the door, he took off running to catch up to his Housemates. I blinked in the bright sun after sitting in the dim light of the Hog's Head for so long, a little disoriented, until Meg and Luna linked arms with me. We walked quietly up to the castle, Neville chatting with Seamus a few steps behind us.

* * *

The Quidditch game was uneventful other than us thoroughly tromping Ravenclaw and Jenny getting more and more irritated with her team and my ability to block almost everything she tried to do.

"You know, you're going to make her angry if you keep doing that," Luke commented as I circled around his hoops while Demi took a penalty shot at the other end for an improperly-hit Bludger.

I shrugged carelessly. "We don't need to score anymore unless they score another 80 points before the Snitch is caught. I might as well practice playing defensively." I'd barely finished that train of thought before Evan peeled off, raced across the pitch, and emerged with the Snitch clamped tightly in his fist: Gryffindor 260, Ravenclaw 30. Not a bad start to the season.

Luke and I hugged in mid-air; I noticed Michael giving us a worried look out of the corner of his eye and played back through his words earlier that day, wondering again what "things" he might have heard about Luke that I didn't already know. Could anything be worse than coming from Death Eater parents, really?

* * *

A barn owl landed inches from my oatmeal a week and a half later. It politely tapped me on the side of the head—I'd been napping through most meals out of sheer exhaustion lately—deposited a folded piece of parchment in my hand, then started beaking my toast.

"See, even random owls think you should be eating more," Meg chastised, pulling me upright. "Seriously, Gin, you have to start taking better care of yourself."

"I'm tired!" I protested. "Too much to do. Sleeping is more important."

She rolled her eyes and turned back to Bianca to restart their conversation about whether vampires or werewolves were hotter. I'd commented earlier that neither was attractive, since both tended to be blood-thirsty killers, and received withering looks in response.

_Miss Weasley, _the letter read, _Please come to my office during lunch; there are several things I wish to discuss with you. Sincerely, Minerva McGonagall_.

I sighed and pushed back from the table. As always, when I was ready to leave breakfast, a small paper bag containing Fawkes' food appeared next to my plate. Meg snatched it and held it out of my reach.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

I brandished the letter. "Meeting with McGonagall during lunch. I need to get my Charms books now in case I don't have time to go back to our room."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Fine. But you're taking the toast, too."

"Megggg," I whined. "You're not my mother. I'm fine."

"If you're fine, then take the toast," she challenged.

I heaved a sigh and took the proffered toast and phoenix food. "You're ridiculous."

"You're welcome," she replied with a sweet smile.

I slung my bookbag across the shoulder, stuffed most of the toast in my mouth, and bounced the phoenix food in my palm as I made my way out of Great Hall. I needed to remember to talk to Twilla the house elf about changing Fawkes' food; he didn't seem to be eating it anymore. I was pretty sure he was just growing up and hunting independently, but there was no harm in checking. A corner of my mind noticed Graham Pritchard, Bailey's D.A. nomination, sitting at the very end of the Slytherin table, reading a book instead of talking to his Housemates.

"Need your friends to remind you eat now, Weasley?" Daphne taunted, appearing out of nowhere to fall into step with me as we left Great Hall. "You're that stupid?"

"Go away, Daphne," I said through a mouthful of toast, making every effort to spray crumbs on her. "It's too early to deal with you."

"I'm just interested in your well-being," she said, plastering a look of innocent concern on her angelic face. "Wouldn't want you getting sick or anything like that. Who knows what goes into the food here? House elves very easily distracted."

I swallowed hard and wheeled to face her. "Number one, house elves are _not_ easily distracted; they're incredibly bright and focused on their tasks. Number two, that wasn't even a logical progression from pretending to care about me not eating enough to vaguely threatening to poison my food. Number three, I'm already going to be late to class, so please just leave me alone for the time being. Number four, how have you _still _ not learned that I'm not someone to be screwed with after last Thursday's class?"

I watched her pale a little as we both thought back to the previous week's Dark Arts lesson. Carrow had been trying to bully me into casting a version of a Silencing Charm that caused the charmed person severe pain when they tried to speak; I'd refused, of course, and when he set Daphne to practice on me I'd thrown up some sort of subconscious shield and rebounded the spell to Daphne, who'd spent the next several hours with a tongue swollen to four times its normal size. The look on her face had almost been worth the resultant detention with Carrow.

She muttered something dark under her breath and returned to Great Hall, turning back to give me murderous looks every few steps.

I resumed walking to the Gryffindor Tower, thoughtfully munching on the toast and pondering the many questions that were constantly circling in my brain. What was Daphne playing at? Why try to make me doubt the house elves? What should the D.A. be doing? Where were Harry, Ron, and Hermione? Where they safe? What had Michael heard about Luke? What did McGonagall want to talk to me about? Was Fawkes okay?

With a shock like I'd stepped into an ice-cold shower, I realized that I'd walked directly through the Bloody Baron.

"Sorry!" I gasped, stumbling and trying to shake the feeling of icy fingers clawing at the base of my neck. "I didn't—I mean, I wasn't paying attention—I—I'm sorry, are you okay?"

The huge, silvery ghost merely stared at me, all eyes and bloodstains and intimidation and sorrow. _Sorrow_? I thought. _Who am I kidding? He's the _Bloody Baron.

"Sorry," I repeated one last time, then turned on my heel and literally ran down the hall, anxious to get away from the looming Slytherin. I took a corner at a dead sprint, hit something, and wound up flat on my back, completely winded.

"Five points from Gryffindor, Miss Weasley," a familiar silky voice said, cutting through my attempts to regain my breath. I squeezed my eyes shut hard against the realization that I'd just bowled over Headmaster Snape—colored lights danced inside my eyelids—and struggled to my feet.

"Sorry, sir," I stammered. "Wasn't looking. Running late."

I got to my feet in time to see Snape carefully checking the lock on the black leather suitcase he was carrying. "Try to be less careless, Miss Weasley," he said, brushing a bit of dust off the corner of the bag, apparently satisfied that the lock was still intact. "This castle is not a playground for you to run around in."

"No, sir," I agreed, fighting the urge to physically assault him. "It's definitely not a playground. Are you going somewhere, sir?"

He gave me a cold, hard look down his long nose and I regretted the question, however natural it had seemed to my slightly rattled brain. "My whereabouts are no business of yours, Miss Weasley," he said quietly. "Yes, I have business that takes me away from the castle on occasion, but do not think that that means you may get away with any childish games in my absence. I have eyes everywhere."

He swept away down the hall. "I'm sure you do," I said quietly, making a mental note to send Pig to my dad with the information that Snape would be out of the castle for the next day or so. "I'm sure you do."

[A/N] I know, I know, I've been away forever. I know, I know, this was more a series of vignettes than a chapter. I know, I know, get to the good stuff...it's coming. Believe me, it's coming.


	12. Naughty, Naughty Children

**Chapter Twelve: Naughty, Naughty Children**

"Come in, come in," Professor McGonagall called in response to my knock. I opened the door to find her usually pristine office in a state of disarray: an open suitcase on the faded chaise lounge in the corner was encircled by piles of severely-colored clothing, several barn owls (including the one that had found me at breakfast) were hooting and swooping from coat rack to door frame to mantle, and stacks of books made it nearly impossible to walk. A large section of one wall had been covered in corkboard and various photos, newspaper clippings, and hand-written notes were pinning and re-arranging themselves on it without any visible means of support.

"Ah, Miss Weasley, lovely to see you," McGonagall said from behind her desk, which was still astonishingly clean. "What can I do for you?"

I blinked and started picking my way across the floor. "You asked me to come to your office over lunch? I got the owl at breakfast this morning. That owl, actually," I added, pointing to the bird in question.

"Ah, yes, I did. My apologies, I've been quite busy of late." She shifted a stack of papers on her desk and closed a book, clearly agitated.

"Professor, if you don't mind my asking...is something wrong? You seem tense."

She sighed. "My home was ransacked."

"Your home?"

"Yes, Miss Weasley, contrary to popular belief, I do actually leave this castle from time to time and I own a house that I live in during those periods," she responded with the closest thing to an eye-roll I supposed Minerva McGonagall had ever done. "It is lunchtime, yes?" She rapped her knuckles on a corner of the desk and two trays of food appeared before us.

"I'm sorry about your home, Professor," I said, helping myself to a bowl of roasted red pepper soup. "Death Eaters?"

"It would seem that way." She set her lips in a firm line that was somehow comforting. "Now. My letter said that I had things to discuss with you, and that is true, there are three issues at hand. First of all, how are things progressing with Mr. Callahan?"

"Luke?" I asked, startled. I assumed from our weekly assignments that McGonagall would know how unbalanced me and Luke's intimate knowledge of one another was. "Fine, I guess. I mean," I paused, dribbling some soup from my spoon back into the bowl, "he's difficult, sometimes. He's cocky, and can be a bit of a prick if he's in the mood. He's also very...perceptive? I'm not sure if that's the right word for it. It's like, he sees the same things everyone else sees, but he gets six times the information from it, and he doesn't share that information, but he knows how to use it...I don't know," I finished weakly. "Difficult. He's difficult."

She nodded. "And his family?"

"He doesn't talk about his parents, really, not since that first night when he knew that you'd told me about them and he wanted to make sure I wasn't assuming he was a Death Eater or anything. He does talk about his little sisters a lot, I think he misses them terribly. Oh, his girlfriend from the States broke up with him a while back and he was grumpy about that for a while. But he gets along with Seamus and the other guys on the team, and they've been helping him with that."

"And how are you dealing with the knowledge of who his parents are?"

I stared into my soup, hoping that the words to clearly express my feelings on the issue would spell themselves out of bits of vegetable. "Again, difficult. I know that he can't help who his parents are, and he did that whole publicly-denying-them thing and that's why you all placed him in Gryffindor, and he's never done or said anything to hint that he'd be a You-Know-Who supporter, but I still feel like he's hiding things about himself and that makes me nervous."

She nodded again. "An understandable sentiment, and eloquently expressed. Now, my second and third topics are linked. You are aware that Headmaster Snape has left the castle for three days' time?"

_Three days_, I noted internally, adding it to the update for my dad. "Yes, I did—wait, how do you know that I know that? I found out after I got your owl."

She hinted at a smile. "I assumed that the news would get to you. The Headmaster and High Inquisitor are not the only ones with informants. Now, Miss Weasley, the final thing: I must ask you to keep your extracurricular activities to a minimum in this absence."

"What, you mean, no Quidditch practices?" I asked blankly, not following.

"No, Miss Weasley, you may hold Quidditch practices as regularly scheduled. Your _other_ extracurricular activity, the one I advised you to govern with caution, restraint, and tact."

I watched her face carefully. "You thought that, because Snape is gone, I'd try to organize some sort of coup?"

"I'm not privy to your plans, Miss Weasley, and I do credit you with a bit more intelligence than that. However, it would be understandable for a student to assume that he or she could get away with more in the absence of the Headmaster and I merely wish to advise you against it, as other parties will be stepping in while the Headmaster is away."

"'Other parties'?" I accidentally clacked my spoon against the side of the bowl and jumped at the noise.

She sighed quietly. "The Dark Lord has deemed Bellatrix Lestrange a suitable Acting Headmistress."

I felt the blood drain from my face and sat back in my chair. I still had nightmares about that woman from the battle in the Ministry two years earlier. "I see."

A few minutes of silence passed as we both continued eating.

"We have a Slytherin now," I said abruptly, looking for something to take my mind off Bellatrix's impending visit.

McGonagall looked up sharply. "You've taken a Slytherin hostage?"

"What? No," I laughed. "I mean, a Slytherin joined that other group we were talking about."

"Really?" she said, leaning across the table. "Who?"

The rest of the hour passed pleasantly as we chatted about Bailey, some of the other new students, and where McGonagall was going to look for a new house. She finally looked at an hourglass against the wall and rapped her knuckles against the desk again, pushing her chair back. "It has been delightful, Miss Weasley, but I believe we both have classes to attend in the next few minutes."

I stood up as well, then jumped as a house elf I vaguely recognized from my occasional visits to the kitchens with Fred and George materialized and began gathering the trays and utensils.

"Preeti?" I asked cautiously.

The house elf jumped at being addressed directly and nodded her head at me. "Yes, Miss Weasley?"

My turn to jump again; I wasn't aware that the house elf population knew me from the next student. "Could you please ask Twilla to stop by my dorm room tonight? I think there may be something wrong with Fawkes' food. I'll be there any time after dinner."

She nodded again. "Of course, Miss Weasley." And with that, she popped away into thin air, taking the remnants of our lunch with her.

I turned to leave. I stubbed my toe into a pile of something as my hand touched the doorknob: _Helpful Hogwarts Handbooks_. All at once, the thought of going to class, playing nice with the Slytherins, and facing the rest of the day just seems exhausting and overwhelming.

"Professor?"

"Miss Weasley?" She responded absently, focused on packing several books into her bag.

"If I happened to accidentally knock over this stack of _Helpful Hogwarts Handbooks_ on the way out, I don't suppose you'd be so angry with me that you'd insist I stay here through the next class period to reorganize them?"

She looked up, stern eyes magnified by her glasses. "I am loathe to provide you with an excuse to skip class, Miss Weasley. I am an educator at this institution and am offended that you would think to ask such a thing."

"Of course." _What was I thinking? _"I'm sorry, I didn't-."

She stood up abruptly, gathered a set of scrolls in her arms, and swept towards me. "I have a class to teach, Miss Weasley, a class of students that does not request time off. If, after I leave this room believing that you are leaving shortly to attend your regularly scheduled class, you manage to knock something over out of your own clumsiness, I would certainly expect you to stay behind to clean it up."

She stopped in the doorway when we were shoulder to shoulder and looked down at me, a barely discernable hint of softness in her eyes. "I would also certainly expect you to take a nap on the chaise lounge, in the hopes that additional rest might cure your clumsiness." She squeezed my hand and deliberately kicked the pile of _Handbooks _to the floor. She was almost out of my line of vision when a thought occurred to me.

"Professor?" I called, stepping out into the hall. She turned back. "What you said before, about Snape—Headmaster Snape, that is—not being the only one with informants. Did you mean me or you?"

She walked a few steps back my direction. "Understand, Miss Weasley, that I do indeed have my sources. However, in that instance, I was speaking about you. Are you not a leader of the largest underground network of students—a network that now spans all four Houses—that Hogwarts has ever seen?"

With that, she swept away around a corner.

I re-entered the office and closed the door carefully behind me, then levitated the books back into a neat stack, shifted the suitcase, and stretched out on the chaise lounge. The barn owls overhead seemed to understand that it was nap time and settled onto preferred roosts to preen, occasionally hooting softly as I fell asleep.

* * *

"Flick one more bit of parchment into my hair and I swear I'm going to gut you," I said testily.

Luke dropped his handful of crumpled parchment balls onto the table and blew on them. "I'm bored. It's late. We can't possibly study anymore."

It was the night before the Transfiguration quiz that, McGonagall had hinted, would determine if we were ready to move forward in the process of becoming Animagi. Luke and I were the only two people left in the library, Brighton and Julia having thrown in the towel several hours earlier.

I looked at him crossly. "If we fail this quiz because of you..."

"We're not going to fail!" He interrupted. "We've been working on this stuff for weeks, and only Parvati and Neville are doing any better, and that's only marginally."

"Well, I don't want to be 'marginally' worse than anyone," I retorted. "Let's just keep at it for a little while longer, at least until we understand the Mallidian Principle she was talking about last week."

"The Mallidian Principle is a nonsensical theory regarding dwelling for too long in the mind of an animal. It's disregarded by basically everyone, why should we try to understand it?"

I silenced him (sadly, only temporarily) with a dirty look and went back to my notes. He occupied himself by arranging the paper balls into a variety of shapes for a few minutes, then:

"So, how's Dumbledore's Army going?"

I admit it. I nearly fell out of my chair. I was well used to people like Daphne and Blaise trying to catch me off guard by slipping questions about the D.A. into normal conversation—as "normal" as conversations between me and any Seventh Year Slytherin were, I suppose—but getting it from Luke gave me a small heart attack. I realized I was staring and clenched my fist hard on my leg beneath the table.

"What are you talking about, Luke?" I said after a few seconds' pause too long. I was proud of how exasperated I managed to sound.

He gave me a knowing look. "The entire school knows that you and Neville are pretty much running the show. Just because no one can prove it doesn't mean that it isn't true. When you, Neville, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, and Meg started disappearing at the same time and no one could tell me where any of you were, well, it really wasn't that hard to jump to the conclusion. Do you honestly think you're fooling anyone?"

"I...we're not...be quiet," I spluttered. "What are the first three tenets of the Mallidian Principle?"

"To be human is to be animal, to be animal is to be nature, to be nature is incompatible with humanity," he recited. "Now, back to the topic at hand. I know you're in charge, you know I know you're in charge, why can't we just talk about it?"

"So...do you want to join? Is that why you brought it up? Because there's this whole vetting system, and I know that Seamus likes you and all-."

"Merlin, no," he exclaimed. "I've no interest in joining your renegade and suicidal group of underage freedom fighters."

"I don't know how the rest of the group will feel about you knowing about us but not joining," I mused, wrinkling my forehead.

"So don't tell them," he said simply. "It'll be our secret. Another thing we share," he added warmly, covering my hand with his. I snatched my arm away.

"Can we just get back to studying, please? If you're not joining, I can't talk about the group's business with you, and even if I was going to talk about it with you, I certainly wouldn't do it here in the library-."

"Should we go someplace more private?" He asked, eyes twinkling.

I made a favorite hand gesture of Fred's that clearly indicated what Luke could go do in private and he nearly asphyxiated laughing.

"Okay, okay, I surrender," he gasped. "No more propositioning you when you're irritable."

"I am _not irritable_!" I practically shrieked. "We have a quiz and you're being impossible and you know things that you shouldn't!"

He continued laughing; I fumed and glared at my notes with such ferocity that I half expected them to wither away.

"All right, I'm cutting you off," he said a few minutes later, swiping my notebook and flipping it closed.

"No, Luke, come on-."

"Ginny, it's well past midnight, which means we're breaking about eight different rules, we've been doing this for hours, and you can't possibly perform well on a quiz if you don't sleep at all tonight."

I stared at him, wanting to poke holes in his arguments, but there were no holes to be found. I sighed and packed my things.

"The Mallidian principle really is absurd, you know," he said conversationally as we left the library and started winding our way toward the Gryffindor power. "All that stuff about not being able to distinguish between your human self and your animal self and the contradictions driving you mad. It's rubbish."

"Oh?" I yawned. "And I suppose you're already in perfect touch with your animal self?"

"Of course," he said. "I see no problems with how Baby Bunny Luke and Human Luke co-exist."

I snorted a laugh. We were passing through a hall lined by suits of armor when Luke stopped short, catching my arm. "What?"

He cocked his head. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? No one else is awake, it's past curfew."

"I know, I just..._look_." He pointed to the far end of the hallway. I squinted, following his finger, and my eyes settled on a tiny ball of white fluff that seemed to be headed our direction.

"What _is _that?" I asked.

"I think it's a...kitten?" He replied, sounding just as confused as I felt. The fluff got closer and I could see that he was right; it was indeed a tiny, adorable kitten, surely not more than a few weeks old.

"A kitten? What's a kitten doing wandering the halls at night?" I started walking towards it, intending to pick it up and cuddle it—_must be terrified, poor thing_—but Luke, who was still holding my arm, tugged me back. "Look, Luke, someone tied a pink bow around its neck."

"Luke, what are you-?"

He looked at me. "Something doesn't feel right."

"It's the size of my palm, Luke, what's it going to do, nuzzle me to death?" I pulled out of his grasp, took a few steps toward the kitten and was just about to pick it up when it opened its mouth and, instead of mewling or purring, it started to sing with the voice of a child.

"_Naughty, naughty children, disobeying rules. Doing things they shouldn't do, such little imps and ghouls." _

"Ginny," Luke said from behind me. "It's singing. Why is it singing?"

"_Naughty, naughty children, in the halls at night. Scamper back to bed, my dears, or catch your death of fright." _

As we watched and listened, the kitten started to grow, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I stepped back, caught Luke's hand, and we moved cautiously backwards. The kitten's voice grew deeper with each line.

"_If you do not listen, the punishments that fall may very nearly make you wish you'd not been born at all." _

"I don't like this," Luke whispered. The kitten was now about the size of a lion, but still kitten-shaped, and showing no signs of stopping. "I don't like this at all."

"_Naughty, naughty children, you simply have to learn: if you play with fire...you're going to get burned." _The kitten, now easily as big as a horse, looked down at us from a face that was somehow still cute, yet horribly frightening.

There was a beat of silence.

"RUN!" Luke bellowed as the kitten roared. He pulled me along next to him until I got my brain working enough to coordinate my feet. We took a sharp corner and heard a loud, metallic collision followed by a thunderous hiss that could have only resulted from a giant kitten running into several suits of armor.

"What do we do?" Luke yelled as we sprinted up a flight of stairs I didn't recognize. The kitten started singing its song again—creepy as it had sounded in the voice of a child, it was much, much worse in a deep bass.

"I don't know what to do when a huge, rule-enforcing kitten is chasing me through a castle at one in the morning!" I screamed.

"Rule-enforcing!" He panted back. "That's it! We have to get back to Gryffindor tower, it's just going to keep following us until we're not breaking rules anymore!"

With a clear destination in mind and gigantic paws pounding in rhythm with a threatening song behind us, Luke and I ran for Gryffindor tower with everything we had.

"Password?" The Fat Lady asked when we jerked to a stop in front of her portrait. We'd gained some time by cutting through a labyrinth-like series of doors I knew from following George around, but the kitten was still far too close, huge, and terrifying for comfort.

"Chariot, chariot, fast as wind," Luke and I chorused.

"Incorrect," she replied.

"What do you _mean_, 'incorrect'?" Luke shouted. "I used that six hours ago!"

"The password has changed," the Fat Lady explained patiently. "It does that, you know. It's how I keep people out who aren't meant to be in."

"But we're meant to be in!" I protested, looking nervously over my shoulder. "I'm Ginny Weasley, come _on_, my family's been going in and out of this portrait hole for the past twenty years at _least_!"  
"Then you should already know that the password changes," she replied, looking very pleased with herself.

"_Naughty, naughty children..._"

Luke and I looked at each other for half a second and immediately started pounding on the Fat Lady's frame, despite her raucous protests.

"Help!" I shrieked. "Anyone? It's Ginny and Luke, someone open the bloody door!"

"We're about to be eaten by a giant kitten!" Luke hollered. "And I'm not even a cat person!"

I looked at him, aghast. "Is now _really_ the time to be making jokes?"

He looked back at me with a straight face. "Can't really think of a better time, actually. Bloody hell, Ginny, don't look over your shoulder."

Of course, I immediately looked behind me, and of course, there was the kitten, still enormous and white and fluffy, stalking toward us like it was about to pounce and still singing that damn song.

Without warning, the portrait swung forward and Luke and I tumbled over each other to get in. We collapsed in a heap on top of our rescuer, who turned out to be Neville, still up studying in the common room.

"I've never been happier to see anyone in my life, mate," Luke gasped, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Giant kitten in the hall," I managed, trying to catch my breath and respond to Neville's incredibly confused expression at the same time. "Must be Umbridge. Sang about breaking rules. Trying to eat us, maybe."

Neville opened his mouth to ask one of the dozens of questions he must have had, but Luke practically jumped on him and gestured to the door.

"Password?" We heard.

"Naughty, naughty children," the kitten replied, back to its child-like timbre.

"Incorrect," responded the Fat Lady.

"Bumblebees with no knees fly in groups of threes," Neville said through Luke's fingers.

Luke stared at him. "What?"

"The new password."

The giggle snuck out of me before I even knew that I thought something was funny. Luke snorted, and then we both burst into helpless gales of laughter that only served to increase Neville's confusion.

[A/N] A nice long chapter in atonement for my prolonged absence. It's 3am and I should reaaaally be asleep, but once I started with the kitten stuff, it had to be done. InkWeaver, you're awesome and yeah, I think you're right about Michael/Cho/Ginny (I really need a beta reader/fact checker), but it's a minor plot point so I'll let it slide.


	13. The Quitter and the Plan

**Chapter Thirteen: The Quitter and the Plan**

"We need to _do _something," Ernie insisted for the ten thousandth time, his already-grating voice becoming even more obnoxious as he fought to make himself heard over the chaos that reigned in the Room of Requirement.

We'd woken that morning to find the entire school buzzing with news of Umbridge's latest rule enforcing strategy. Luke and I, as it turned out, weren't the only students that had been threatened by singing baby animals that could quadruple in size at will: a Second Year Ravenclaw had narrowly avoided death by bunny and a Fourth Year Hufflepuff reported a chick the size of a house. Neville and I had quickly conferred and decided that an emergency D.A. meeting was necessary, so most of the group had skipped dinner to brainstorm new tactics.

"If you're not going to actually propose a plan, Ernie, please just shut up," Michael called through a bite of sandwich, winking at me from across the room. The Room of Requirement—_scratch that, the house elves_, I corrected myself, making a mental note to thank Chives when I got the chance—had provided a decent spread for us in lieu of the normal evening meal.

I shot Michael a look of thanks. Neville had been called away on prefect duties at the last minute, Luna was in one of her more disconnected moods, and I was having trouble keeping the meeting under control by myself. "Michael's right, everyone. Just saying that we need to do something to make a change isn't going to accomplish anything."

"The D.A. is supposed to be about fighting back," Zacharias Smith voiced. I started seething inwardly; anything this boy had to say was bound to be problematic. "So far all we've done this year is get together to complain. Let's face it, without Harry, Ron, and Hermione, this group is basically useless."

In the midst of the uproar that followed that statement—Michael actually chucked his sandwich at Zacharias' face—I rocked back onto my heels, stunned. Stunned that someone had actually said that out loud. Stunned that my heart hadn't completely stopped at the mention of Harry's name. Stunned that I wasn't pissed off about it, I was just...stunned.

I registered a familiar tug on a lock of my hair. "Yeah, Luna?"

She pointed. "You may want to do something about that. It'd be a pity if they got blood on the carpet, I'm fairly certain it was woven from Shamalan fur."

I blinked. Through all the yelling and angry hand gestures, I deduced that Michael had followed his sandwich by launching himself across the circle and was in the process of breaking most of the bones in Zacharias' face. I hesitated—I wouldn't have minded taking a swing at him myself—but raised my wand and shot the loudest sparks I could muster into the air over our heads. After the resultant shrieks faded, the room was silent and I stood up, smoke from the sparks wrapping around me.

"If that is how you feel, Zacharias," I began, trying desperately to marshal my thoughts before I said anything rash while maintaining a cool exterior, "you are more than welcome to leave. Several members of this group are skilled enough with a Memory Charm to perform the necessary extraction."

Zacharias, still fighting for air through Michael's headlock, gasped a few words I couldn't make out. Michael released him and glared daggers at his back while the Hufflepuff spoke, blood dripping from a corner of his mouth.

"Go on, then, do it. I'm through risking my neck to get to secret meetings where we don't even do anything." He reached into his pocket, produced his D.A. galleon, and chucked it on the floor at my feet. "Pull whatever you want out of my head and let me go back to not volunteering to get myself killed."

"Zach, man..." Justin Finch-Fletchley said, clearly aghast.

"No," Zacharias cut him off. "I'm done. I want out."

I struggled against the panic that was settling into my stomach. I hadn't expected him to actually ask to leave. I had no idea if anyone in the group could actually perform a specific enough Memory Charm to erase Zacharias' D.A. memories from the past few years without leaving huge, suspicious gaps that would make him an obvious target for Death Eater interrogation.

"I can do it," Padma volunteered after a moment's silence. Every head in the room turned to her. "At least, I'm pretty sure I can. I had to do a topic-specific memory extraction in my O.W.L.S. and I've learned more since then."

More silence as people started moving instinctively away from Padma and Zacharias. Padma lifted her wand and pointed it at Zacharias' face.

"If you mess my brain up..." he said threateningly.

"You've done a good enough job of that already," Padma said calmly. "Now be quiet so I can concentrate."

"Wait," I interrupted. "Luna, can you fix his face so he's not wondering why he's so beat up once the spell is done?"

The room watched silently as Luna glided forward, spoke a few quiet words, and Zacharias' bones shifted back to their rightful places and excess blood vanished.

"Thanks," Zacharias mumbled.

"No, Luna, you screwed it up," Michael called. "Oh, wait, no, sorry mate, that's just how ugly you always were."

As Padma took a deep breath to begin the enchantment, Michael caught my eye again and grinned, shrugging apologetically. I rolled my eyes.

"_Obliviate_," Padma intoned, forehead furrowed in concentration. We all watched, holding our breath. When she lifted the spell, Zacharias fell to his knees. As he started to get up, someone shouted "_Stupefy!" _and a blast of red light hit Zacharias in the back. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious, and every head turned to Bailey, whose lightly smoking wand was extended before her in a trembling hand.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," she rushed, nearly dropping her wand but managing to look very pleased with herself nonetheless. "It's just—we don't want him looking around and seeing all of us now, do we? Wouldn't that kind of defeat the point of the Memory Charm? Don't we need to get him out of here before he wakes up?"

"The Slytherin has a point," Ernie agreed.

"Her name is Bailey, Ernie, not 'the Slytherin'," Meg interjected. "But yeah, she's right, Ginny, what do we do?"

An idea hit me suddenly and I walked back over to the table our food had appeared upon. Imitating McGonagall's actions from the day before, I rapped my knuckles on the corner of the table. "Chives?" I added for good measure, raising my voice. "Could you send someone to help out with something, please?"

"Uh, Ginny?" Meg asked, giving me a gentle smile. "Are you feeling okay?"

I opened my mouth to assure her of my sanity, but a loud cracking sound did the job for me as a house elf materialized on the table.

"You is needing assistance, Miss Weasley?" Twilla asked, beaming up at me.

"Brilliant, thanks, Twilla," I said, breathing a sigh of relief that that had actually worked. "Could you get Mr. Smith over there back to his dorm, please? He's not to know where he was or who was here, so maybe if you could just put him in his bed so he thinks he's waking up from a nap or something?"

Twilla gave me a little bow and hopped off the table. "Not a problem, Miss Weasley. Is you needing anything else?"

"No, that'll do it. Thank Chives for the sandwiches, though."

Twilla wrapped her tiny fingers around Zacharias' thumb, gave the whole room another bow, and Disapparated, taking the unconscious Zacharias with her.

Everyone was staring at me.

"What?"

"You have house elves at your beck and call?" Parvati asked incredulously.

"They're not—I do not—no," I said shortly. "Is there anyone else who thinks their life would be better if they weren't in the D.A.?"

Dead silence fell. Most of the group intently studied their shoelaces.

"Well. Good. Now. Let's vote on the candidates for membership. Meg, you've got the list?"

Meg nodded and pulled Neville's notes from the last meeting from her pocket; the group moved back to the sitting area and resumed eating as though Zacharias had never been an issue. We moved through most of the candidates—Laura Madley, Owen Cauldwell, Demi Robbins, Natalie MacDonald, Annie Markel and Ryan Fuentes—with relatively little discussion, but hit a dead stop when we tried to talk about Jenny Cortland, Ravenclaw's Quidditch captain. Neville walked in as we neared our fifteenth minute of debate.

"I don't not want her here because she's my ex-girlfriend, Padma, I don't want her here because she's unpredictable and rash," Michael protested.

"Unpredictable isn't a bad thing," Padma countered. "If we're predictable, we'll get caught."

"Who're we talking about?" Neville whispered in my ear, squishing in between me and Luna.

"Jenny," I whispered back.

"She's the crazy one, right?"

"Right," I laughed quietly. "What was the prefect thing you had to do?"

"Nothing important, just Blaise being a prat."

"Everyone saw her nail that Slytherin with a Quaffle last year," Justin contributed to the overall conversation. "She's not exactly low-profile."

Meg snorted. "Yeah, and Ginny being the constant top of the leaderboard for demerits is definitely low-profile."

After several more minutes of arguing, the vote was still split down the middle, so we tabled Jenny's membership to the next meeting in favor of discussing our last candidate for membership: Graham Pritchard. Bailey presented a convincing case for Graham being an okay guy and somewhat of an outcast among the Slytherins, and a few other people gave positive reports from Housemates in Graham's Charms class, but the general sentiment in the room wasn't swayed.

"Look, kid," Michael summed it up. "It's great that there's someone in your House you don't entirely hate, and maybe—just maybe—Graham isn't as much of a git as the rest of your House. But 'non-git-ness' isn't a qualifying characteristic for being in the D.A. We're looking for people who are against You-Know-Who. Until you can prove that Graham's actually on our side, well...it's not going to happen."

Bailey looked crestfallen, but nodded that she understood. No one seemed to have anything else to say on the matter or brought up new candidates, so we assigned older group members to contact the new recruits and the meeting broke up. Michael was actually halfway out the door when he paused and spoke over his shoulder.

"Ginny, at the beginning of the year, you mentioned something about the Sword of Gryffindor, about Harry and Ron and Hermione needing it for something."

I frowned. "Yeah, something like that. Dumbledore left it to him, and they were pretty upset that they didn't know where it was or how to get it. Why?"

He turned back and crossed the room. "I've only just remembered: it's in Snape's office."

I actually felt my jaw drop. "_What_?"

"Yeah, I got called in there a few days ago for telling Umbridge exactly where she could stick her latest edition of the _Handbook_ and it was hanging on the wall behind his desk."

"Are you sure?" Neville asked, appearing at my side.

Michael raised an eyebrow. "Big shiny, pointy thing with a ruby at one end and 'Godric Gryffindor' etched on the side? Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

I looked cautiously around the room. Everyone had left except me, Neville, Luna, Meg, Michael, and the Patils. We gathered in a tight circle.

"We have to get it," I said quietly. "We have to get the sword, and then we somehow have to get it to Harry, Ron, and Hermione."

"What, break into Snape's office?" Parvati hissed. "You're mad. It's suicide."

"It's brilliant," Michael countered. "It's so insane that they'd never expect us to actually try it. That's probably why Snape's got it hung there for everyone to see, he knows we'd be mad to try to get to it."

"We should go now," Meg interrupted suddenly.

"_What_?"

"Tonight. Snape's out of the castle, right, Ginny? You said that earlier, Snape's gone until Thursday."

"No!" I practically shouted, cutting off excited agreements with Meg's idea. "We can't."

"Why not?" Neville demanded. "We'll never get another chance like this."

"Because McGonagall said not to, that's why, and there are bloody giant kittens in the halls at night and...and..." I let my air run out, aware of the effect the next part of McGonagall's warning was going to have on Neville. "Just because Snape's not here doesn't mean that his office will be empty."

"You know something," Meg said slowly, narrowing her eyes at me.

"What?"

"I know that look, when you're holding something back," she said. "Spill."

I bit my lip. "It's really not important _why_ we don't go, it's just important that we don't go-."

"Ginny," Neville cut me off. "Who's in Snape's office if he's not there?"

I sighed. "It's Bellatrix Lestrange. She's here. In the castle. You-Know-Who made her Deputy Headmistress while Snape is away."

Neville blanched and sat down hard. Luna sat next to him and started threading her fingers through his hair in that oddly comforting way of hers.

"Okay," Padma said. "Not tonight."

"Definitely not," Parvati agreed. "We need a night when Snape is in the castle, but we know he won't be in his office."

"What would keep him out of his office long enough for us to break in, steal the sword, and get out unnoticed?" Michael asked.

"Halloween," I said slowly.

"You're joking."

"No, think about it," I said, gaining steam. "It's a Friday. The Gryffindor versus Slytherin Quidditch match is that afternoon, and then we have the Halloween Feast and Ball. Snape's guaranteed to be in Great Hall during the dance, and it shouldn't be too hard for a few of us to slip away."

"And everyone will be in costume," Meg added. "Extra layer of protection can't hurt."

"This is going to take a ridiculous amount of planning," Padma pointed out. "Every single detail will have to be perfect. If we get caught doing this..."

She let the sentence trail off. Everyone knew what would happen if we got caught.

Neville stood up, still visibly shaken but somewhat steadied by Luna's hand under his elbow. "I think we should keep this to just the seven of us."

"What, you mean not tell the rest of the D.A.?" Michael asked.

"It's not that I don't trust them," Neville said quickly. "It's just...this is risky. Very risky. Stupidly risky. The fewer people know about it, the less likely something will go wrong or get overheard. Plus, if we do get caught, this way the rest of the group isn't involved."

Through the general murmurs of assent, Neville extended his hand, palm down, into the middle of the circle. "We keep it secret," he said.

"Secret," Luna agreed, placing her hand on his. One by one, the others swore to keep the plan private, until I was the only hold out. Aware that every eye was on me, I tried to sort through the several voices in my head: the Sorting Hat, cautioning against creating dividing lines; McGonagall advising caution, restraint, and tact; my dad, begging me to put my Weasley-ish nature aside.

And then, quieter than the rest but somehow infinitely more important: Harry. Harry, tracing the lines in my palm with the tip of his finger. Harry, the entire world on his shoulders after Dumbledore's funeral. Harry, forced to give up the one place he called home—Hogwarts—to fight a battle he never asked to be a part of. Harry, playing with pieces of my hair while I tried to read.

"Secret," I said out loud, joining my hand with the others'. "Secret."

[A/N] Yesssss, finally getting to the good stuff. Welcome to all the new readers who've popped up in the past few days :)


	14. All Hallows' Eve

**Chapter Fourteen: All Hallows' Eve**

The next two weeks passed quickly. The seven of us met whenever possible, but most of the planning was accomplished via passed notes in hallways. Bellatrix terrorized the school for a few days, but thankfully left before doing permanent damage. The new D.A. members were inducted at a haphazard meeting in which Seamus tried to teach the basics of hand-to-hand combat that he'd picked up in a Muggle martial arts class. Gryffindor played Hufflepuff in Quidditch and very nearly lost, owing to Luke's being sick and forcing me to play Jack Sloper at Keeper. I smacked Amycus Carrow when he touched my hair during Dark Arts one day and earned a straight month of Saturday detentions. Fawkes developed the habit of leaving dead mice on my pillow; I developed the habit of falling asleep wearing the Sorting Hat, alternately badgering it for advice and just listening to it. Over the centuries of serving and observing Hogwarts, it had picked up an impressive amount of anecdotes.

_Everything's worked out except how to actually get into Snape's office_, I thought at the Hat as I settled into bed on October 30th. _We reckon there's got to be a password for the statue guarding the staircase, and we don't know what it is. _

_I believe you'll find that that particular issue resolves itself, _the Hat responded.

_What do you mean? _

While the Sorting Hat pondered how best to explain—an activity that was accompanied by a light sort of tickling in my ear—Fawkes swooped in through his rookery and settled onto the roost, welcomed by chirps from Pig and Arnold.

_The various inanimate objects in this castle, Miss Weasley, _the Hat began, _were not placed for mere decoration. Every item—every statue, every light fixture, every portrait, every tapestry—was chosen and placed by the Founders for a specific reason. Do you know what the principle duty of the Headmaster of Hogwarts is stated to be, according to the school's founding documents? _

_ The school has founding documents? _

The Sorting Hat sighed in my ear. _If I didn't know any better, I would swear that the only student to have ever read _Hogwarts, A History _is Hermione Granger_.

_ She's certainly one-of-a-kind, _I agreed. _Wait, at the beginning of the year, McGonagall mentioned something about that. She said that Dumbledore considered the safety of his students to be his greatest responsibility. Is that right? _

_ It is indeed. _

_ So the Headmaster's main job is to take care of the students, _I thought slowly, trying not to get ahead of myself, _and everything in the castle was placed where it is for a specific reason...does that mean that the statue to the Headmaster's office is also supposed to be sort of...watching out for us? _

_ It is my opinion that if you approach the statue and explain to it your honest intentions, the spirit that it was imbued with will be moved to assist you. _

"Brilliant," I breathed.

* * *

"So it's just going to let us in?" Neville asked incredulously at breakfast the next morning. "What's the point of Snape putting a password on it if it's just going to let us in?"

I shifted one of the hundreds of jack-o-lanterns lining the center of the table so I could lean closer. "I don't think Snape really _gets_ the castle, you know? He's in charge and everything, but I dunno, Nev, if you heard the way the Sorting Hat talks, it's like everything in the castle is alive and somehow conscious."

Neville sat back, still looking skeptical, but raised his glass of pumpkin juice. "Well, cheers to the Founders, then."

"Cheers to the Founders, eh?" Luke echoed, settling into the seat next to Neville. "Why's that, mate?"

"Oh, for, uh...pumpkin juice," Neville finished somewhat frantically. "I love the stuff."

"Right, me too," Luke said, giving Neville a funny look. "Anyway, did you guys hear that Bellatrix Lestrange is back?"

My eyes shot to Neville, who had paled instantly. "What are you talking about?"

"I guess Snape invited her for the feast and ball tonight," Luke said, completely unaware of the effect his words were having on Neville. "Supposedly, Halloween's one of her favorite nights of the year."

Neville gulped and stood up awkwardly, panic written all over his face. "Ginny, I'm going to go talk to Parvati and Meg about a, uh, prefect thing. See you at the game."

"Secret D.A. things?" Luke asked knowingly as Neville hastily left Great Hall.

I glared at him, refusing to answer. "Nice to see that you're feeling better. We almost lost to Hufflepuff because of you being sick, you know."

Luke rolled his eyes and spoke through a mouthful of porridge. "You've only told me about half a million times, thanks."

"Just because your girlfriend broke up with you and you're feeling all mope-y doesn't give you an excuse to fake sick to get out of a game," I said, surprised by the vehemence in my own words.

"Fighting words, there, Gin, steady on," he said, clearly just as surprised as I was. "I really was ill, you know. And I haven't moped about Abby in at least a week."

"Well...just...don't screw up tonight," I blurted. "I don't want to be the first Gryffindor team to lose against Slytherin in almost a decade."

I hastily pushed away from the table and stalked out of Great Hall, consciously trying to calm myself down.

* * *

"Did you see Guy's face after Ritchie hit him with that Bludger?" Jimmy crowed as we paraded back into the locker room, flushed, glowing, and triumphant after a narrow but brilliant victory over Slytherin. "Thought he was going to piss himself, he was so mad."

"And Astoria after Luke blocked all three of her penalty shots?" Natalie continued. She high-fived Luke over my head; I winced and ducked.

"Aww, what's the matter, there, captain?" Luke joked. "Thought you'd be beside yourself that we beat them."

"I am," I said, smiling and trying to make it look less forced than it felt. I was thrilled that we'd won the game, but the knowledge that Bellatrix Lestrange was watching from the Headmaster's box made me extremely uncomfortable. "Honest. You played really well."

"So did you," he replied cautiously. "Is everything okay?"

I looked up at him just in time to watch as he tugged his Quidditch robes and sweaty undershirt over his head and turn to me with his hands in his pockets, his hair ruffled, and his glorious chest and six-pack available for my perusal.

"Yes, everything is fine," I insisted, determinedly looking at his eyes. "I'm just a little tired from the match and I'm not really looking forward to playing dress-up all night."

"Oh, so you're upset that no one asked you to the ball?"

"What? No, I—I've had other things on my mind." I picked up my water bottle and took a long draw, avoiding his eyes. To be honest, I'd been so busy planning the night's illegal activity that I'd completely forgotten about getting asked to or asking someone to the dance; Meg, Parvati, and Bianca had been full of gossip about who was going with whom for the past few days and I'd been largely successful at tuning them out.

"Well, you can come with us, if you want. I'm sure Daphne wouldn't mind," Luke offered nonchalantly, thankfully pulling a shirt on.

"Thanks, that's sweet of you, but-." I fully processed the name he'd just said and dropped my water bottle. The lid flew off and water started pooling around my sneakers; I barely noticed. "Daphne? Daphne who?"

He popped his head out of the collar of his shirt, looking bewildered. "Daphne Greengrass, Gin, how many Daphnes do you know?"

Rage started pitting in my stomach, tying my intestines into knots. "You're taking _Daphne Greengrass _to the ball?"

He chuckled, apparently oblivious to the tension in the room. Everyone else had fallen silent at my last question and was watching the two of us cautiously. "Well, I think technically she's taking me, since she's the one who asked, but yeah. What of it?"

"'What of it?'" I echoed. "WHAT OF IT? She's a Slytherin, she's a completely terrible human being, she's been shagging Crabbe for years, and she—she—Merlin, Luke, she's basically my arch-nemesis, what the _hell_ are you thinking?"

I crammed all of my things into my bag and ran from the room, the wet soles of my shoes squeaking with every step.

"Ginny!" I heard Luke plea behind me. "Ginny, wait up, please!"

His fingers closed around my arm when we were in the hallway leading out to the pitch. He pulled me around to face him and put his hands on my shoulders, stooping a little to meet my eyeline.

"Ginny," he said softly. "I've been sad about Abby, Daphne's pretty and funny and smart, she asked and I said yes. That's all. If I'd have known it was going to upset you this much I never would have agreed. I didn't know."

"Bullshit," I spat. "I'm not some moony-eyed Fourth Year who follows you around swooning over your biceps, I'm your Transfiguration partner. We spend hours together every bloody week and you've _heard _my stories about Daphne, you've _seen_ me at Quidditch practice after Daphne's been practicing her curses on me during detention. You _know _how I feel about her."

"Ginny, I..." Luke trailed off. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"You know what I'm _thinking_, Luke?" I said. I could feel my next words rising inside me, and I tried desperately to hold them back, but the anger had built up to a fever pitch. "I think that someone who's trying to prove he's not _exactly _like his parents should _maybe_ not be shagging the Slytherin princess."

I shrugged his hands off my shoulders harshly, turned on my heel, and marched off.

"I'm not shagging anyone!" Luke shouted after me.

"I don't give a Dinklebee's arse who you shag!" I shrieked, whirling around. "Shag the entire damn Slytherin house for all I care! They're all pretentious, conniving, evil little twits anyway!"

A small noise to my left startled me; I looked over and felt all the anger leave my body in an instant.

"Bailey," I began, taking a step toward the silently crying Slytherin. "I didn't-."

"I just wanted to say congratulations on winning the game," she said through her tears.

"Bailey," I tried again. "You know that I don't-."

That was as far as I got; the tiny blonde girl ran back toward the castle with her face in her hands.

_Well. Shit._

* * *

I picked my way through the feast. My anxiety about the activities of the night was gone, replaced by a simmering anger at myself and Luke. Next to me, Neville was methodically working his way through a plate of food with shaking hands and making a point of not looking at the Head Table.

After what seemed like hours, Snape announced that the feast had ended. He clapped his hands and the tables disappeared; Great Hall was instead filled with giant pumpkins, cobwebs, and a whole range of other Halloween-themed decorations. A live band—well, an un-dead band, technically—started playing in one corner.

Neville, Luna, Michael, Meg, the Patils and I made eye contact from our various locations as everyone bewitched their costumes into existence.

It didn't take long for the initial stage of our plan to be set. Padma was going to act as our first lookout, staying in Great Hall and keeping an eye on the various figures we needed to keep track of: Snape, Umbridge, Filch, the Carrows, and, as of that morning, Bellatrix. Parvati and Meg were the next layer of protection. Stationed just outside the doors to Great Hall, Meg was ready to have a complete blubbering meltdown in Parvati's arms should any of our targets leave the dance.

Luna made a non-discrete getaway by shrieking that the Adalantian Sheerfish was about to be born and streaking out of the hall; Neville used her distraction to slip out unnoticed. I was watching some of the younger Ravenclaws imitate Luna's antics when a hand touched my shoulder. Michael.

"Dance with me?" he asked.

I sighed, but placed my hand in his. "Sure."

He led me to the dance floor as the band struck up a slow song. I caught Padma's eye and she minutely shook her head—_not yet_.

"You look lovely," Michael said as we settled into a gentle sway, his arms low on my back and mine around his neck.

I laughed. "I'm dressed like a Weird Sister, Michael, I'm not supposed to look lovely."

"You always look lovely to me," he said in a low voice.

"It's not time, yet, Michael, you don't have to be acting right now."

This part of the plan, although simple in goal, was complicated to execute. Luna disappearing was standard practice and Neville wasn't exactly known for his dancing or love of parties; Michael and I, however, would be more noticeable in our absences. We needed excuses to be gone for an hour or more, excuses that would ensure no one came looking for us. We'd decided to stage a big, dramatic scene in which Michael declared his love, I spurned his advances, he shouted something awful about Harry, I ran away and he followed me, presumably to make up. If we played our parts well, no one would question our prolonged absences from the dance.

"I'm not acting," he said. "It's the truth."

A hand tapped Michael on the shoulder.

Luke.

Great. One moment I didn't want to deal with, interrupted by another moment I didn't want to deal with.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asked.

"Not now," Michael said.

"C'mon, mate, just for a dance or two," Luke continued, inserting an arm between Michael and I.

"I _said_, not now," Michael repeated, pushing Luke's arm out of the way. "Bugger off."

"What's your problem?" Luke asked. "It's a party. We're supposed to be having fun."

"You're my problem at the moment," Michael retorted. "You come here with a girl you _know _she hates and then you expect that she's actually going to want to dance with you?"

"Lucaaaaas," Daphne slurred, appearing from nowhere and draping her scantily-clad self all over Luke's front. "Where'd you go?"

"Not now, Daphne," Luke said through gritted teeth, staring at Michael like he was trying to make his head explode through sheer force of will.

"But I found a rosebush just for us," she said in a stage whisper, catching the Luke's earlobe between her teeth.

"I'm not _interested_, Daphne, I keep telling you-."

Daphne seemed to suddenly realize what she was standing in the middle of and turned to face me and Michael, pressing the back of her body into Luke, who immediately put both his hands high in and air and looked to the ceiling for help.

"Hi, hot Ravenclaw boy and Gryffindor slut," she said. She leaned forward toward Michael, grabbing Luke's shirt for support. "You know, I'd be careful with this one if I were you. She's probably carrying all sorts of diseases."

Fighting the ball of rage in my stomach for what seemed like the twentieth time that day, I looked around the room, my mind racing. We couldn't afford to delay much longer or our timing with Neville and Luna would be off. Padma caught my attention, shrugged in a "just roll with it" kind of way, and winked.

Showtime.

"Michael," I said, sliding myself between him and Daphne, "weren't you saying something earlier about how I look tonight?"

"What?" He asked, his eyes a little unfocused, still glaring at Luke. "Oh, right, yeah-."

But whatever compliment he was about to pay was drowned out by my shriek as Daphne seized a fistful of my hair and yanked. I stumbled backward, found my footing, and straightened up, fixing a strap of my dress and calmly turning to face her, noticing as I did that quite the circle of spectators had gathered around us.

"You are the single biggest idiot I have ever met," I stated. "I don't catfight."

"Aw, afraid you're going to get your poor-little-dead-boyfriend-loving ass kicked?" She taunted, tucking one of her perfectly curled blonde locks behind her ear.

I laughed. "You misunderstand. I didn't say I don't _fight_. I said I don't _cat_fight."

And with that, I kicked off my heels and launched myself at her. Sixteen years of six older brothers had taught me well; I got in a several good swings and she'd only managed to land a light claw to my cheek before someone—Michael—pulled me up and restrained me.

"You heard what she said!" I sobbed theatrically, trying to find a balance between what I needed to accomplish and my overwhelming desire to beat Daphne's bony little butt into the ground. I struggled free of Michael's arms and was both pleased and disturbed to find that I was already crying. "You heard what she said about Harry. I don't—I can't!" I heaved one last giant sob/gasp/cry and fled, praying that Michael would have the sense to follow.

* * *

"You're a little scary sometimes," Michael gasped when we finally stopped running, two corridors down from our planned rendezvous with Luna and Neville.

I laughed, wiping my cheeks for tear tracks. "I can't even tell you how long I've wanted to do that."

"You'll catch hell for it come Monday," he cautioned. "I'm sure practically knocking out another student is worth a ton of demerits."

"Worth it," I said happily. "Definitely worth it."

We rounded a corner to find Neville pacing and Luna dancing in small concentric circles. We formed a tight square and ran through the details of the plan one final time.

"Right," Neville said, his jaw set. "Luna, you're going to...?"

"Stay here and keep a lookout," she said promptly. "Everyone has their coins?"

We each produced a D.A. Galleon, then tucked them back away in a pocket—mine went on a string around my neck, as my dress didn't have pockets.

"And who are you going to warn us about, Luna?" Michael asked.

"Snape, Umbridge, Filch, the Carrows, that Lestrange harpy, anyone who might cause a problem," she said in a sing-song voice. "Don't fret, Marcus, everything will be fine."

"Michael. My name is Michael."

"Anyway," I interrupted. "We'll message you when we're leaving Snape's office and splitting up. Where does everyone go from there, Luna?"

"You and Marcus-."

"—Michael-."

"You and Michael will take the sword to the Room of Requirement, Neville and I will return to the ball," Luna recited. "Will you dance with me when we get there?"

Neville flushed. "Well, yes, I suppose so. Um, we should get going."

"Good luck, then," Luna said. "Do try not to get killed."

"Cheers," Michael said, rolling his eyes.

The three of us took off at a trot down the corridor, checking each corner to make sure it was clear before moving on. We came to a halt in front of the statue guarding the stairs to the Headmaster's office; Neville and Michael gestured me forward.

I shifted my weight awkwardly from bare foot to bare foot, still not sure how to go about addressing a statue and asking it to abandon its post without giving the proper password. "Look, I, uh...I'm Ginny Weasley. Ginevra Molly Weasley, really. I don't know the password, and I know that you're not supposed to let me in if I don't know it, but the thing is, see, Snape's got the Sword of Gryffindor in there. I don't know how much you know about Snape or You-Know-Who or Harry...I don't imagine you get out much...but the Sorting Hat said that if I came here and was honest, you might be willing to help."

There was a pregnant pause, and then, unbelievably, the statue cocked its head.

"Oh, you're listening? Okay. So, here goes: I intend to steal the Sword of Gryffindor from Severus Snape's office and somehow get it to Harry Potter. I believe that doing so will help Harry win the war against You-Know-Who and, well, that'll be really, really good news for Hogwarts students."

The statue seemed to consider my explanation, then fluidly leapt to one side.

"Really?" I asked, astonished. "That worked? Brilliant, thanks!"

I darted past the statue and started up the stairs, but a grating sound and protests from Neville and Michael stopped me cold. The statue had returned to its original position and was barring them from accessing the staircase.

"Oh, come on," Neville complained. "We're with her, stealing the sword so we can give it to Harry and all that."

"We think Snape's absolute rubbish," Michael added.

The statue was literally unmoved, though, and we agreed that in the interest of time, it was best that I went on alone. Michael pulled a series of leather straps with bronze buckles from his pocket and awkwardly leaned over the statue to secure it around me. "It's for holding the sword flat against your back," he explained, pulling one of the straps tight under my armpit and another across my hips. "In case we have to run. You're going to want both hands free."

"Thanks," I said, readjusting my dress under the straps. "Keep an eye out, yeah?"

They both fervently agreed. I took the stairs two at a time and pushed through the door into Snape's office without giving myself time to pause or chicken out.

The sword was the very first thing I laid eyes on; it was so prominently displayed, centered above the desk, that there was no way not to look at it. The next thing I noticed was that the portrait frames were just as empty as the last time I'd been in this room. Apparently, Hogwarts' former Headmasters didn't think much of Snape, either. I started picking my way across the floor—judging by the state of the room, Chives hadn't yet succeeded in badgering Snape into letting him clean the office—and planning how in the world I was going to get up to the sword; climbing was certainly going to be involved.

I knotted my dress up above my knees, shucked my black wig to the ground, tied my hair up in a ponytail, and started climbing the front of one of Snape's many bookshelves. I clambered to the top of it easily, silently thanking Fred and George for all those times they'd chucked my shoes or teddy bear up into the trees in our backyard, and plotted my next move. The portrait frames were huge—each easily as tall as I was—and looked sturdy, but I wasn't sure if they'd actually support my weight.

"No backing out now, Weasley," I told myself out loud. I inched to the edge of the bookshelf, transferred one hand and foot to the edges of a huge, gilded portrait frame, then ever-so-slowly moved the rest of my body to join them. The frame or hinge or wall creaked slightly in protest, but I didn't go toppling to the ground. I let out a sigh of relief and progressed to the next frame.

Three frames later, I was directly beneath the sword, close enough to touch it, and was just pondering how I was going to lift the sword from its hangers and secure it on my back without plunging to my death when a kind, friendly, familiar voice from somewhere near my navel made me shriek, jump, and press myself against the portrait with white knuckles.

"This may be one of the more inappropriate situations I've ever found myself in with a student," said Albus Dumbledore, bright blue eyes winking up at me.

"S-s-sir?"

"Never fear, Miss Weasley, I'm certain that my being dead will take most of the spark out of the story."

"Y-y-yes, sir."

"Now, I presume you're wondering how to get both the sword and yourself safely down to the ground?"

"Yes, sir."

"I believe I can be of some assistance in that matter," Dumbledore said. As he spoke, his portrait swung forward on invisible hinges; I shrieked yet again and hung on tighter, but there, in the wall behind the portrait, a door-sized cavity had been carved and in it rested—

"The true Sword of Gryffindor," Dumbledore explained. I wedged my way around to the back of the portrait and stepped over into the cavity, picking the sword up with both hands. "I fear that poor Severus has only a replica," he continued. "An excellent duplicate, but still merely a replica. I had to ensure that the sword made it into the proper hands."

"Brilliant," I breathed, swinging the sword over my head and securing it into the many-strapped contraption. "What should I do with the fake one, then?"

"I believe that hiding it behind this portrait would be in our best interest. We wouldn't want Severus knowing that he has been deceived."

I leaned out as far as I could—by balancing on my toes and hooking my fingers around the edge of the hole, I was just able to reach the fake sword and pull it back into the hiding place. "Wow, this one looks exactly like the other one. It's incredibly well done."

"Goblin-made, like that from which it was copied," Dumbledore intoned. "It cost me several dear favors to have it made. Come along now, Miss Weasley, I'm sure you are on a tight schedule."

The descent was far easier than the climb, despite the length of metal strapped to my back.

"Thank you, sir," I said, looking up at the portrait. "I—for everything. We all miss you terribly. Harry worst of all."

He looked down at me through his half-moon glasses, smiling, but a hint of sadness rimming his eyes. I pressed my hand against my breastbone, which was irritated for some reason—I must have scratched it during the climb—as he spoke. "I will never truly be gone, Miss Weasley. Not from this castle, and not from the hearts of those who fight for it."

I nodded, unsure of what to say—unsure if I'd be able to say anything without crying—and turned for the door.

"Miss Weasley," he called as I put my hand on the doorknob. I turned back, tears hazing over my vision despite my best efforts. "Fawkes. Is he all right?"

I managed a small laugh, scratching the annoyed bit of skin on my chest as the pain grew. "He leaves dead mice on my pillow three times a week."

Dumbledore smiled, and this time it reached all corners of his face. "He'll grow out of that."

"I actually have a question about him, sir," I said suddenly, taking a few steps back into the room, "there's this thing he does with his...feathers..." I trailed off as my fingers brushed against the source of the irritation: my D.A. Galleon, strung around my neck, glowing white-hot.

I threw the door open and flung myself down the stairs. I just made out Dumbledore calling "I'm sorry!" before the door slammed shut and I threw myself past the statue, which didn't even get a chance to completely move out of the way. I barreled into Neville and Michael, both of whom were red in the face (presumably from shouting for me), grabbed each of them by the hand and took off at a dead sprint. We got through two flights of stairs and several hallways before we took a corner and screeched to a halt.

There, sitting in the middle of the corridor, was a light brown bunny with a purple bow around its neck. As one, Michael, Neville, and I started stepping backwards.

"_Naughty, naughty children," _it sang.

"Naughty, naughty children indeed," echoed a sweet and perky voice from behind us.

"The naughtiest," agreed a deep, slimy timbre that, as usual, made my skin crawl.

"This is going to be fun," chorused a fourth voice that I heard in nightmares of that horrible night in the Department of Mysteries. Neville grabbed my hand so hard that I felt a bone pop.

Umbridge, Snape, Bellatrix, and a bunny that was already the size of a tiger and still growing.

"At least I got to punch Daphne before I got killed," I said under my breath. Michael snickered, then everything went dark.

[A/N] Hi to new reviewers and readers! Now that I've finally figured out how to PM-reply to reviews, I promise an individual response to anyone with comments/questions/love/hate. Also, sorry I'm skipping over the Quidditch matches, I just have no idea how to write them and they don't really do anything for the plot.

[A/N] re: the sword swap—**I know I'm off-canon here**_**. **_I promise I have a reason, and I promise to explain that reason in the next chapter. For now...roll with it.


	15. Recovery

**Chapter Fifteen: Recovery**

I don't remember much of what happened during those next few days.

I remember being chained to the dungeon wall between Neville and Michael.

I remember being thankful that Luna, the Patils, and Meg had gotten away.

I remember the look on Neville's face as Bellatrix used the same curse on him that she'd used to drive his parents past the recoverable edge of sanity.

I remember Fenrir Greyback sharpening his claws on Michael's skin.

I remember my lungs closing, my fingers burning, my head pounding, my legs giving out, my skin peeling, and my brain screaming.

I remember Michael and Neville being released, sent to the Infirmary, while my watch dutifully blinked at me that it was early Sunday morning. Bellatrix crowing that I had to stay for special, extra punishment, because I was the one who'd had the sword.

I remember being worried that I wouldn't have time to get my schoolwork done for Monday. I remember realizing that no one could be mad at me for not having work done if I was dead.

I remember searing pain, burning pain, slicing pain, dull pain, throbbing pain, and pain so great that taking refuge in my head—blocking it all out—seemed to be my only hope of survival. I remember separating myself from what was happening.

I remember long, delicate, callused fingers on my arms and face and ribs, spreading heat under my skin, a force I didn't understand healing me, bringing me back from the brink, time and time again.

And then I remember waking up. Slowly pulling my consciousness out of a void, stumbling my way back toward the real world. Dizzy when I opened my eyes, dizzier still when I slammed them shut. Flickering lantern lights, and voices I couldn't quite make out. Pain in my knees, pain in my head, pain in my hands. I struggled to move, to sit up, to run, but those long, thin fingers firmly held me in place.

"Miss Weasley is staying still," a quiet, close, familiar voice insisted. "Miss Weasley is not letting them know that she is waking."

"T—Tw—?" I tried, forcing sound through my parched/broken/bruised throat.

"I is Preeti, miss. Twilla was being here yesterday." Light pressure on my neck, fire beneath my skin, and the pain from my throat lessened. I blinked again, Preeti's tiny, concerned face swimming into focus. "How is you feeling?"

I started to laugh, but every muscle in my body shrieked in protest. "Alive. Thanks to you, I bet."

Something akin to rage seemed to cross Preeti's face. "They is making house elves heal the hurted students," she whispered fiercely. "So that they can continue with the hurting. This is not right, Miss Weasley."

"No, Preeti," I agreed. "This is not right at all."

We both fell silent. She continued lighting tiny fires under my skin. I worked on remembering how to breathe. The more progress we made, the more I was able to bring the distant conversation into focus.

"It's clearly not safe here!" Bellatrix was saying. "You've got hundreds of students running around and you can't control them. What if the Weasley snit had been successful?"

"We knew of their plan from the beginning," Snape countered coolly. "There was never a chance of them getting away with the sword."

"And yet they were mere hallways away from safety when we caught them."

"A hallway can be a lifetime in this castle, Bellatrix."

She snorted derisively. "Don't try your riddles on me, Severus. You've been spending too much time talking to that portrait of the old idiot in your office."

"What I do in the privacy of my office is no concern of yours."

"No, but when you allow children to break into your office and very nearly steal an object that could jeopardize our Lord's rule, that _is_ my business," Bellatrix hissed. "I received confirmation this morning. I will be taking the Sword of Gryffindor with me and depositing it in my vault at Gringotts for safekeeping."

"I cannot stress enough that I find great flaws in your plan," Snape said. "It is better to spread such important objects across as many secure locations as possible."

"Unfortunately for you, Snivellus, it's not your decision."

"Resorting to childhood nicknames, Bella? That hardly seems necessary."

"Also not your decision. Now, where's the Weasley bitch? If she's conscious by now, I'd like to give her a parting gift. Have the sword packaged and ready for my departure."

My heart started pounding as Bellatrix's shoes clacked closer, but Preeti pressed two fingers to my forehead and my eyes and brain drifted shut.

* * *

The next time I came to, I was in the Hospital Wing.

I blinked at the vaulted ceiling, willing it to swim into focus. The room was filled with a fading pink light that streamed through the windows.

_It must be almost night. _

I levered myself up onto my forearms, wincing as the muscles through my torso shrieked at the motion. My hair, matted with clumps of blood and dirt and other disgusting things, dragged across my tattered Weird Sisters costume.

A noise just to my left startled me; I turned my head sharply and breathed a sigh of relief when my brain calmed down enough to process Michael, dozing and snoring lightly in a chair next to the bed I laid on. I caught sight of Neville in a bed like mine over his shoulder, breathing slowly but steadily, and I heaved a second sigh of relief. _They're both okay. _

Ignoring the waves of discomfort it sent through my entire upper body, I stretched over the side of the mattress and tapped Michael on the knee. When he didn't respond after the first, second, or third touches, I gave up and hurled my pillow at his face. He snorted into wakefulness and caught the pillow by reflex, blinking owlishly at me.

"Ginny? Ginny!" Michael immediately turned and chucked the pillow at Neville, who had a similar reaction and was out of the bed, sitting at my feet, within seconds. They both stared at me with looks that sang so strongly of concern and relief that I got uncomfortable within seconds.

"What time is it?" I asked, pushing myself into a sitting position—and wincing every centimeter of the way—and reaching for the glass of water on the table next to my bed.

"Dinner-ish," Michael said, bounding to his feet and handing me the glass.

"On Tuesday," Neville added.

"Tuesday?" I exclaimed, nearly spitting out the sip of water I'd taken. "What happened to Monday?"

Neville and Michael exchanged glances. "We'd better call Meg and Luna here," Neville said. Michael nodded. Both boys produced their wands, muttered incantations, sent their Patronuses skipping away, and then refused to answer any of my questions until Luna and Meg, following Michael's hawk Patronus and Neville's indistinct but very large Patronus, respectively, came dashing into the room.

"Ginny!" Meg shrieked, throwing herself into my arms

"Don't," I wheezed, trying weakly to push her away. "I'm gross, you'll get blood on your robes."

"As if I care," she snorted, moving off me and settling an arm around my shoulders.

Luna, following at a more stately pace, approached the foot of my bed and offered an elegant, flourishing bow. "Milady Weasley. It is indeed pleasant to see you recovering."

"Thanks, Luna," I responded, trying to match her level of sophistication and failing miserably. "Neville, what's going on with your Patronus?"

All five of us watched the glowing silver animal for a few seconds as it poked at a pile of linens with one paw. It seemed to be rapidly shifting between several forms of large cat.

"Dunno," Neville replied, trying to sound nonchalant. "It was just a housecat at first, but it's been growing and stuff since the summer. I asked McGonagall about it; she said it's uncommon, but some people's Patronuses change over time."

As if it knew we were talking about it, the cat lifted its head, fixed each of us with a stare in turn, then vaporized.

"Anyways," Meg said, bouncing around on the mattress to look at me again. "What happened? Neville says you didn't get dumped here until noon on Monday.

I frowned. Had I really spent more than a day down in the dungeons after Neville and Michael had been released?

"Hey," Michael said gently, threading his fingers through mine. "It's okay. You're okay."

"She is not _okay,_ Michael," Meg snapped. "None of you are okay."

The tense silence that followed was broken by Luna quipping, "Ginny, you look _terrible_," pointing her wand at my head, and beginning to siphon the blood and grit from my hair, humming as she worked. Michael, Neville, and I laughed; even Meg cracked a grin.

"If my biggest problem is having blood in my hair, I'll take it," I said. "Okay, so, what happened while I was...occupied?"

"Nothing besides Bellatrix leaving," Neville said. "She took the sword, Gin. Made a big show of it in the entryway, saying that she was taking it to her Gringotts vault."

I groaned and slapped my palm to my forehead. In short, stunted sentences, I explained what had happened in Snape's office with Dumbledore's portrait having me switch the swords.

"So, it's all my fault," I concluded glumly. "If I hadn't switched the swords, Bellatrix would have taken the fake one to her Gringotts vault and we somehow could've gotten the real one to Ron, Hermione, and Ha—Ha—_Harry_," I finished firmly, forcing the word between my gritted teeth.

"It is _not_ your fault," Meg, Neville, and Michael chorused.

"You couldn't have known we were going to get caught," Neville continued.

"Dumbledore asked you to take it!" Meg went on.

"They'd have figured out it was a fake at some point anyway," Michael added.

I slid back into the pillows. "Yeah. Maybe."

A squawk of outrage sounded from the doorway; Madame Pomfrey stood there with her hands on her hips and daggers shooting from her eyes. "Visiting hours are over!" She practically shrieked. "Miss Weasley needs her rest, and you should all be at dinner!"

With much eye-rolling and well-wishing, my friends allowed themselves to be shooed from the room by the small but fierce Madame Pomfrey, who came to stand over me with a significant amount of fire blazing in her eyes. "How are you feeling?"

I considered the question. "Like I've been in a boxing match with an ogre or two. And then walked through the Whomping Willow's branches. And then got hit with an Organ-Melting Hex—oh, wait, that last part actually happened."

The stern look I was receiving softened, ever so slightly. "You're alive. And you'll make a full recovery. You're expected in classes tomorrow morning, and you'll need as much sleep as possible between then and now. This," she said, drawing a small bottle from a pocket, "will help you with that. Take it soon, Miss Weasley. You've been through a horrible ordeal." With that, she turned and swept from the room.

I sat in the empty room for a few minutes, enjoying the complete silence. The Hospital Wing was a slightly creepy when abandoned, but I felt like I could breathe (figuratively, of course, as several of my ribs seemed to be healing from fractures) for the first time in weeks.

I got to my feet and managed to stumble to the washroom in the far corner of the room. Yes, I was exceptionally exhausted and Luna's _Scourgify_-ing of my hair had helped, but I still felt rather crusty and knew I'd sleep better if I was clean. I took a long, hot bath and inventory of the weekend's impact on my body: besides a few fading bruises and a pink line over one eye where a cut was rapidly healing, the only outward sign of my extracurricular activities were the deep purple bags etched under my eyes. Inwardly, every muscle in my body continued crying whenever I moved, but I could live with that.

I changed into a set of Hospital Wing pajamas I found in a cupboard, brushed my hair and teeth, and headed back to my bed. I was just getting ready to down Madame Pomfrey's potion when someone in the doorway cleared their throat.

Luke.

"Go away," I stated bluntly.

In response, he pulled up the chair Michael had been using earlier.

"I said, 'go _away,_'" I repeated, glaring

"Don't be like that," he said quietly. "Please."

I rolled my eyes so hard that I was surprised they didn't fall out of my head. "I have nothing to say to you, and I'm not interested in anything you have to say to me. So stop wasting both our time and leave."

"I didn't know she'd be like that," he said. "I didn't know she'd say those things."

"Didn't you, though?" I snapped. "We talked about this after the game, Luke. You know what me and Daphne's relationship is like, and more than that, you know what Daphne's like."

"And I told you, I just wasn't thinking. I was sad and lonely and Daphne was there and pretty and available—."

"—and the spawn of Satan," I chimed in. "You know what, Luke? It doesn't even matter what you were thinking when she asked you. I could forgive that, given the circumstances. But even after we fought, even after you knew how much it bothered me that you were going with her to the ball, you still went with her."

He sat back in his chair, clearly stunned. "I'd already committed to going with her, Gin, it wasn't like I could just back out."

"Yes, you could have!" I protested. "You could have made up an excuse or, Merlin forbid, you could've actually told the truth for once. But no. You didn't. You chose her."

He stood up, fists balled at his sides, nearly knocking the chair over. "That's not fair."

"It's not fair, but it's true."

Luke started pacing a small, rigid path back and forth next to my bed, holding his tongue. I took the opportunity to take Madame Pomfrey's potion and settle deep into my pillows, watching him wear a trail into the stones. He finally dropped back into the chair, head in his hands.

"It was just a stupid dance, Ginny."

I felt a wistful grin twist my face. "No. It wasn't."

He looked at me through gaps between his fingers. "What do you mean?"

"Dunno if you've noticed, but we're in the middle of a war. Maybe it's easy for you to forget about it sometimes when we're here and it's just...Hogwarts. But we're in the middle of war and everything we do and say—they're battle lines. And you going to the dance with Daphne? Like it or not, that's a battle line."

A few more beats of silence passed, and Madame Pomfrey's sleeping draft began to kick in. I yawned, and when I opened my eyes, Luke was sitting on the edge of my bed—I somehow hadn't felt the mattress shift.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking straight into my eyes. "I am truly, truly sorry."

I yawned again, a smaller one. "That doesn't make it better. Saying that you're sorry doesn't magically fix everything."

"I know. But it's a small step? Maybe?" He looked at me hopefully. I didn't respond.

"I shouted at her after you left the dance, you know," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"After you ran out of Great Hall crying. Daphne turned to me and said something snide and I shouted at her. I said a lot of rather nasty things."

I giggled in spite of myself. "Like what?"

"Oh, things that don't bear repeating. Although I'm sure any number of other people would be pleased to tell you. Everyone heard and, well, they've been talking about it."

I narrowed my eyes again. "This isn't fair. You're taking advantage of me being drugged and sleepy to make me like you again."

He held up both his hands in a gesture of innocence. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Yeah, well...leave," I insisted. "I'm still mad at you."

"That's fine," he said quickly, standing up. "I'm perfectly okay with you being mad at me. Just so long as we're still talking. Just so long as you don't give up on me. Just so long as you forgive me eventually."

I yawned again and my eyes drifted closed against my will. I dimly heard him walking away.

"Be worth it," I said, just before I fell asleep, just before he left the room. I tried to make it sound fierce and intimidating, but it came out much more how I felt it: as a plea. _Please, please don't turn out to be one of the bad guys_.

[A/N]

Heyyyyy peeps. I've been gone forever, I know. Thanks for sticking with me :)

Tayler, since I can't respond to your reviews when you're not logged in—thanks for reviewing! I appreciate people being okay with me deviating from set storylines a little, _but_ Fawkes taking the sword to Harry would, in my opinion, take away from Snape's storyline, so that's probably not going to happen. Don't worry, though, Fawkes'll have his part to play :)

**re: the sword swap**—if you're confused about what happened, here's my explanation. In the books, Dumbledore hid the real sword behind his portrait before he died, putting the fake sword on display because he knew the Ministry would try to take it. As he expected, the fake sword is removed from the castle for examination, which it somehow passes, and is then returned to Hogwarts and hung in Snape's office. The Silver Trio try to steal it, thinking it's the real thing. Snape, under Dumbledore's instruction, gives the fake sword to Bellatrix to store in her Gringotts vault, then gets the real sword to the Golden Trio.

My issue is that I don't believe for a second that the Ministry officials—and, more importantly, Voldemort's underlings—assigned to examine the sword would have been fooled by a fake one, no matter how good of a replica it was. So I re-worked things a little (I know, I know, off-canon, sue me). Here, Dumbledore knew the sword would be examined, so he let the Ministry take the real sword and put the fake sword behind his portrait, assuming Snape could perform the necessary switch at any point in time once the Ministry/Voldemort's underlings were sure it was the real thing and returned it to Hogwarts. Bellatrix's arrival at the castle for Halloween complicated things, but presented a good opportunity for Snape to gain Bellatrix's trust by entrusting the sword to her protection so she could gain favor with her master. Dumbledore's portrait has Ginny take the fake sword and put the real sword safely behind his portrait; he was banking on her getting caught and behind forced to turn the sword over to Snape and Bellatrix. Get it?


	16. Into The Woods

**Chapter Sixteen: Into The Woods**

"This is insane," Luke commented, swearing as a branch snapped across his shoulder. "There are rules against this for a reason."

"Stop whining," I retorted. A clump of mid-November snow dropped onto my hat. "McGonagall told us to come out to the Forbidden Forest and start getting familiar with it now so it doesn't throw us when we're in animal form. We're not breaking any rules."

"Do me a favor and tell my sisters that when I get killed out here, okay? 'Yes, Luke was eaten by a giant spider, but at least he wasn't breaking any rules."

I shot him a sideways glance, startled by the reference to Aragog and his children, whom I'd heard about from Harry and Ron. "Giant spider?"

He shrugged. "One hears things."

I followed Luke as we traipsed through the woods in companionable silence for a few minutes, watching his shoulders and the back of his head and being careful to put my feet where he had stepped. We hadn't talked about the fiasco at the Halloween Ball since that night in the Hospital Wing, but he'd done an admirable job of shunning Daphne's advances ever since and I was able to be around him without resorting to violence on a regular basis.

Afternoon sunlight sparkled off the fresh snowdrifts. We huffed our way to the top of a small hill; Luke planted his feet on an overturned log and hauled me up next to him.

"It's gorgeous out here," I said, looking around over the tops of the trees.

In response, Luke let out a puff of air, gripped his wand from inside his jacket pocket, and spoke a quiet incantation. His crystallized breath took on the shape of a tiny, perfect pirate ship and sailed away over the trees.

"Pretty," I commented.

"Simple," he said. There was a beat of silence, then he clapped me on the shoulder. "There was a side path back that way a bit," he said, gesturing back the way we'd come. "I'm going to go check it out. You keep heading that direction for a while. It'll be getting dark soon, so we shouldn't stay out much longer."

I nodded, watched him bound down the hill with surprising grace, then set off down the other side with considerably less poise. I managed to pick up the faint trail we'd been following and picked my way along it, stopping frequently to free an ice-trapped branch or brush snow off a bird's nest. I paused in a small clearing to examine a set of rabbit prints, wondering where the rabbit lived when it was this cold.

Not too far to my right, something in the woods snapped. I automatically sank into a crouch and froze, wrapping my fingers around the base of my wand that protruded from the top of my boot.

_It's probably nothing_, I reasoned with myself. _Don't be a coward. Luke'll laugh if I call him here and there's nothing wrong. _

Another snap, closer this time. _There's a fine line between "coward" and "idiot," Ginny. _Heart pounding, I freed my wand, whispered, "_Expecto Patronum!"_ and, through a series of swift thoughts, instructed the silvery horse—smaller than usual, as if it understood that stealth was important—to find Luke and lead him to me. As it galloped away, I heard the sound of hooves against the frozen earth, but that didn't make sense—a Patronus didn't actually have mass, so it shouldn't have been making any noise.

To answer my question, a fully-grown male centaur emerged into the clearing. A fully-grown, male, familiar centaur.

"Firenze!" I exclaimed happily, straightening up and brushing leaves and snow from my jeans. My old Divination teacher eyed me curiously, then offered a regal bow.

"Ginevra Weasley," he said softly. "It is a pleasure to see you again, but you should not be here. These woods are less safe as of late than usual—and they are usually not terribly safe to begin with."

"I appreciate your concern," I said, thinking frantically through Care of Magical Creatures classes on how politeness and comportment counted for a lot with centaurs. "My class is working on becoming Animagi, and our professor thought it would be good for us to start getting to know the woods."

"I see." Firenze turned his face upward, seeming to bathe in the light of the sun. "Jupiter and Mars are in conflict, Ginevra. Do you remember what that means?"

I struggled to think back to old Divination lessons. I'd never paid that much attention or put much stock in Divination, but that clearly wasn't something I was going to tell Firenze. "Er...conflict?"

"Indeed." He looked down at me, infinite sadness reading in his eyes. "Conflict indeed."

There was a rustling in the woods over Firenze's shoulder and a second centaur stepped out and trotted to Firenze's side.

"Ronan," Firenze greeted with a nod of the head. "Welcome."

"Why are you speaking with the human foal, Firenze?" Ronan asked in a quiet, tense, voice. "You are aware of Magorian's leanings."

I twined my fingers together, figuring that I was the "human foal" in question and wondering who Magorian was.

"Magorian has a great many leanings," Firenze responded lightly. "This child was a student of mine during my time at the castle. She tells me that there are other children in the forest today as well."

Ronan made a sound that brought to mind an uneasy horse. "Bane will not be pleased with such a development. How many children?"

Both centaurs looked at me. "Just one other, sir. Our class is working in pairs. But the other pairs will be out this weekend too."

Ronan whickered again. "We should return to the Dwelling and tell this news to Bane and Magorian," he said. "It would be unpleasant if one of the patrols encountered the human foals unexpectedly."

"I will follow you shortly, brother," Firenze said. "I wish to speak with the child for a moment longer."

Ronan nodded and turned to gallop away. At the edge of the clearing, he rounded and faced me directly. "I know you not, foal, and I am not inclined to trust your kind. However, as you are a friend of Firenze, I wish you safe passage through the coming conflict of Jupiter and Mars. May the grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green."

"Uh, yes?" I looked at Firenze for guidance in how to properly respond. Hagrid definitely hadn't taught me what to say when a centaur wished soft grass for my hooves. Firenze, however, was back to observing at the sky. "Thank you? I wish you the same? Have a good night?"

Before I was finished stammering niceties, Ronan had trotted off between the trees. Firenze looked down at me again. "You respond by saying, 'May the setting sun dwell ever lightly in your heart'. For future reference."

"Thank you," I said weakly, hoping that I never needed that bit of ceremony again. I hadn't realized how tension-filled the clearing had been until Ronan left; I felt most of the strength rush out of my legs and had to brace one hand on a tree.

"Minerva McGonagall should know better than to bring children into the forest unannounced," Firenze said matter-of-factly. "I would appreciate if you would ask her to notify us in advance in the future."

"Of course," I managed. I pulled at the collar of my cloak, struggling to breathe and get my heart working again.

"It is not just because some of my brothers are...distrustful," he explained. "There are dangerous things in these woods, Ginevra Weasley. Dangerous creatures and dangerous people alike."

There was a sudden, colossal crashing sound, and Luke came barreling into the clearing in the wake of my disappearing Patronus, wand out and eyes wide. "Ginny! Are you..." his voice died at the sight of the centaur standing opposite me.

"Lucas," Firenze said with a faint snort of surprise. "Interesting to see you here."

"He's my partner," I explained quickly. "For Animagus training."

"Indeed. You keep interesting company, Ginevra." Firenze said calmly. "Take care. May the grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green."

"May the setting sun dwell ever lightly in your heart," I called after his retreating form. When I turned back to Luke, he was staring at me with an expression halfway between my mum's I'm-so-disappointed and Fred's I'm-so-proud. "What?"

"I leave you alone for ten minutes..."

I threw a loosely packed handful of snow at him. "Shut up. He taught Divination last year."

"Suuuure he did. Come on, we'd better be heading back to the castle."

I tucked my wand back in my boot and started following him again.

"Hey, Luke?"

"What's up, Gin?" He held a snow-laden branch out of the way so I could walk under it.

"How did Firenze know who you were?"

"I have no idea," he shrugged. "Centaurs are weird. Maybe the stars told him."

* * *

"You hung out with a centaur?" Meg asked incredulously that night at dinner. "Stop doing cool things without me."

"I did not 'hang out' with a centaur," I protested, reaching over Luke for a roll. "I ran into Firenze, he spouted a few riddles, he left. That's it."

Meg grumbled. "Sure, sure. Playing word games with centaurs, leave the best friend out of it, why not?"

As I snorted with laughter, Pig flopped down into my beef wellington and started squawking indignantly. A few seconds later, Fawkes swooped in gracefully and alighted on the crown of Neville's head, looking down at Pig with disdain. Both birds had pieces of parchment tied to their legs.

"What's with the mail call, guys?" I asked, removing Pig from my plate, gently wiping his tiny wings, and untying his message. He immediately hopped down the table and started tangling himself in Bianca's hair. "This is supposed to happen at breakfast."

I unfolded a brief letter from Charlie that told me nothing about anything I wanted to know about. I tucked it away in my bag to re-read later and looked up in time to see Fawkes beak his message to Neville, who gave the phoenix a piece of corn in return.

"No comment about the phoenix sitting on your head, Nev?" I asked as he handed me the envelope.

Neville shrugged. "I'm starting to figure out that being surprised about anything is a waste of time when I'm friends with you. Plus, this has got to be good luck according to some ancient culture."

The envelope was addressed to "Miss Ginevra Weasley" in a flowing, light-handed script that I didn't recognize. I flipped it open curiously and read out loud.

_Ginevra, _

_ While happening upon you in the forest this afternoon was a pleasant surprise, your news regarding the increase in frequency of students' forays into our woods was of concern to several of our Dwelling. It has been decided that the interest of all parties would be best served if you were to learn more of our ways and boundaries and act as an ambassador to all students who will be spending time in Shanalore. If you agree to take on this role, I will meet you outside Hagrid's home next Friday at dusk. _

_ Firenze_

"You _are_ hanging out with centaurs!" Meg exclaimed. "I knew it!"

I squinted up at Fawkes, who'd threaded his talons into Neville's hair and seemed quite content there. "So you're carrying messages for centaurs now?"

He let out a trill of song and stuck his beak into Neville's ear.

"Nonsensical messages, no less," Luke commented, snatching the letter from me. "'Their Dwelling'? 'Shanalore'? And why does the entire thing sound like an excerpt from a Shakespearian play?"

I swiped the letter back and smacked him on the head with it. "They're centaurs, that's how they talk. Be nice."

"It's not like they're going to hear me from here," Luke retorted. He tried to sound sarcastic, but was hit with a coughing spasm halfway through and choked the last couple words out.

Neville pounded him on the back. "You all right, mate?"

Luke took a few deep, shuddering breaths. "Yeah, I'm okay. Feeling a little under the weather, though; I think being out in the snow all day might not have been the best idea."

I raised my eyebrows. "I feel perfectly fine."

"Of course you do," he said crossly. "You have a stronger constitution than most superpower nations."

I responded with one of George's favorite phrases and there was an almost imperceptible _clink_ as one of the tiny rubies in my hourglass fell to the bottom half. I checked the number of demerits I'm accumulated and quickly swore ten more times, catching the attention of everyone within earshot.

"If you've developed Tourette's, Gin, we should get you to the Hospital Wing," Seamus commented.

"Be quiet," I retorted. "Demerit punishments are in an hour. That first swear put me at56, which means I'd be filing for Filch, and he's got heaps of extremely unpleasant paperwork. The 61-65 group does 'administrative' work for Carrow, and we all know how well that worked out last time." I thought back to two weeks ago. I'd reported to Carrow's office and five minutes later, he had a black eye and a broken nose and I had another few weeks of detention to look forward to. "But 66-70 just scrubs cauldrons for Slughorn, and while it's a little gross, it's not bad. Sluggy still likes me."

"You have this entire school wired, don't you?" Natalie asked, shaking her head in astonishment.

I shrugged. "Sometimes it pays to know the rules. I'm sure they'll figure out what I'm doing eventually, but in the meantime anything that keeps me and Carrow far away from each other is solid gold in my book."

* * *

The week passed painfully slowly. Quidditch was over until the spring thaw, so I had more free time, but the amount of homework was ramping up as professors started preparing for end-of-term exams. We held a brief D.A. meeting which accomplished nothing more than everyone yelling at me, Neville, Luna, Meg, Michael, and the Patils for not including them on the sword-stealing endeavor. Bailey was conspicuously absent, and every time I tried to track her down to apologize for what I'd said about Slytherins after the Quidditch match, she managed to slip away.

Friday evening finally rolled around. I made my way down to Hagrid's hut as he was finishing a lesson on Exploding Webknaughts with the Third Year Hufflepuffs—including Rose Zeller, the girl I'd served detention with that first week. She gave me a tiny wave and smile.

I'd talked to Hagrid about my situation earlier that week during a lesson, and he launched right into centaur protocol once all the Hufflepuffs had cleared out. I learned several bows and niceties, and he explained important bits of centaur history that were likely to be referenced. I pulled the container of stew Chives had been all too pleased to give me earlier that day and Hagrid heated it over the fire as I asked my last few questions.

"The 'grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green part' makes sense, for the most part, it's a general wish for prosperity and comfort, right?" I accepted the bowl of steaming stew Hagrid handed me and blew on a spoonful. "But the 'setting sun dwelling lightly in your heart'?".

"I had Firenze explain it tah me once," Hagrid said. "Basically, means that, at the end o' the day, yeh want to be able to go to bed without regrets, so when yeh're lyin' there tryin' to sleep, yeh're not thinkin' about all the things yeh shoulda done or coulda done. Yeh hope that the day passes easily."

"Okay," I said, nodding slowly. "I guess that makes sense. In roundabout centaur logic."

Hagrid chuckled. "I'd avoid callin' em 'roundabout' tah their faces."

"Obviously," I sighed. "Okay, any other tips? If I'm going to be the first human to enter the centaurs'...what'd you call it? Dwelling? in recent history, I should know as much as I can."

"Yeh should be fine, providin' yeh watch yer manners," he said. "Don't interrupt when anyone's talkin', especially not if it's someone important like Magorian or Bane."

I fed Fang a chunk of potato as I listened. "And who are they?"

"Magorian's the overall leader, sorta like a chief or king. He's okay as far as centaurs go. Bane's their...I guess you could call him their general. He's in charge o' their defenses an' warriors. An' he's not a very pleasant chap."

From there we digressed into castle gossip until the sun started to dip behind the trees. I ruffled Fang's ears one last time, thanked Hagrid, and went to sit on a stump outside until Firenze arrived to guide me to the centaurs' home. I'd been waiting less than a minute when the soft sound of hooves breaking snow drew my attention to the treeline; Firenze emerged, gloriously statuesque as always, and inclined his head in my direction.

"I am pleased that you have accepted your post as ambassador, Ginevra," he said.

"Ginny is fine, Firenze," I said. "Thank you for offering. I know that humans aren't normally allowed to know much."

"Times are changing rapidly," he mused. "Come along, now. We have much ground to cover." He offered me his hand. I stared at it.

"Sorry, you want me to...?" I tried to explain in gestures, too embarrassed to ask in case I was wrong.

"It will be faster if you ride," he said calmly, gripping my forearm and swinging me up onto his back. "Do try to pay attention, however. The time may come when you need to find us without a guide."

And with that, I rode off into the Forbidden Forest on the back of a centaur.

[A/N]

Tayler—Yayyy, I'm glad my edit to the storyline makes sense to people who don't live in my brain! As for Ginny/Luke, Ginny/Harry, Ginny/possibleOCnotyetintroduced...wait around and see :)


	17. The Dwelling

**Chapter Seventeen: The Dwelling**

"Firenze?" I ventured after we'd been making our way through the Forbidden Forest for several quiet minutes.  
"Yes, Ginevra?"

"It's Ginny. I have a few questions that Hagrid couldn't answer. Do you think you could help?"

"I shall assist as I can. However, understand that there are secrets of the Dwelling that cannot be divulged to outsiders."

I ducked my head behind his shoulder to avoid being whipped in the face by a branch. "Okay. First question, though: what do you mean by 'Dwelling'?"

"A Dwelling is both where a centaur lives and the group a centaur lives with."

"So...you _are _a Dwelling, and you live _in_ a Dwelling."

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Firenze turned from the path and we started moving through thicker woods, the chill of the snow and fading sun settling into my bones.

"Next question. You mentioned Shanalore—is that another name for the Forbidden Forest?"

Firenze turned his head to fix me with one huge, dreamy eye, somehow managing not to stumble or even misstep although his hooves kept moving over icy rock and earth. "Shanalore is the true name for these woods, Ginevra. It is the ancient name, given by the spirits of the Earth."

_Ooookay_. I let that thought bounce around in my head for a while as we moved deeper and deeper into the woods.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hagrid told me that I'll be the first human to enter a centaur society in at least a hundred years. So, why me? Why now?"

"I explained in my letter, Ginevra. Magorian and the Elders believe that having someone to act as an ambassador between the Dwelling and the human children using Shanalore would be most helpful in maintaining a civil relationship. I volunteered your name as you seem to be a pure heart and spirit."

"Thanks, I guess," I said. "But I don't buy the rest of it. Magorian and the...Elders? could have just forbidden us to enter the parts of the forest that you live in. And Care of Magical Creatures classes sometimes come into the woods."

Firenze made that sound that I thought was a whicker. "The decisions of Magorian, Bane, and the Elders are not to be questioned, Ginevra. Nor are their reasons to be suspect to humans."

I scowled into his back. "Okay."

Several more minutes passed, and Firenze became increasingly agitated.

"Uh, Firenze? Is everything okay?"

In response, he stopped and offered me his forearm as an assist for getting down. I slid to the ground and shook life back into my legs, looking up at the centaur, who was now visibly nervous.

"We are very nearly there, Ginevra. Merely a few more steps and you will be in the Dwelling, and, as you noted, you will be the first human to enter a Dwelling in a hundred years—the first human to enter this particular dwelling in more than half a millennia."

I let out a breath. "So, no pressure."

He looked at me sharply. "Incorrect. The gravity of the situation is undeniable. You must comport yourself impeccably."

"It was sarcasm, Firenze. When humans say one thing but mean the opposite."

He gave me a blank look. "Why would you do that?"

"It's a coping mechanism, I guess? It can be funny at times. Never mind. I'll do my best to behave."

Firenze looked me up and down, as if calculating whether or not my best was going to be good enough. "Very well. Let us proceed."

He walked through a stand of trees, tail disappearing between branches. I took a steadying breath and followed. I had my heavy winter cloak off and tossed on the ground before I'd even fully crossed through the trees: wherever the clearing Firenze and I had just emerged into actually was, it was springtime. I discarded my school robe in a heap on top of the cloak, leaving me in jeans and a (thankfully clean) t-shirt.

"You control the _weather_?" I asked Firenze suspiciously, slinging my bag across my chest.

"Personally? No." he responded. "The Growers do, however, exert a certain amount of influence over the winds and clouds."

"Just a 'certain amount'?" I looked over my shoulder at snow-laden branches we'd left behind. "Who are the Growers?"

"Later. Come."

He strode forward; I trotted to keep up. We moved quickly through the large clearing, which was dappled in the pinks and oranges of an early sunset. There were very few buildings, and those than did exist seemed to be somehow built into the trees themselves. Centaurs dotted the scene, some engaged in some form of work (making pottery or slicing vegetables, for the most part), some in deep conversation, some staring at trees or clouds or grass with the single-minded devotion that I was starting to equate with all centaurs. Most seemed intent on ignoring me—or perhaps they were just too focused to notice that a human was in their territory—and the few who did look up seemed unsure of how to deal with my existence. Across the clearing, several smaller centaurs—_children?—_were gamboling about, tossing a small ball that appeared to be woven from reeds.

"Firenze? Are those children? Or foals?" It somehow hadn't occurred to me that centaurs, like all living things, had to reproduce somehow. What would a young centaur be like? I shot a furtive look up at Firenze, trying to appraise him. How old was he?

"_Later_, Ginevra," he chastised, casting a glance at the setting sun. "We are late."

"Late? Late for what?"

"I was to bring you to Magorian three cricks after dusk, but the journey took longer than I anticipated." We stopped in front of an oak tree so big around that I doubted it would fit in Great Hall. He placed his palm on the trunk and humming deep in his chest, a sound somehow imbued with power that made the hair on my arms prick up. As I watched, the bark around his hand molded itself into a door, which swung inward on invisible and noiseless hinges. I followed him cautiously into the hallway that unfolded before us and spiraled downward, lit on both sides by lanterns that glowed a warm, comforting light that pulsed from blue to yellow to magenta. Doors were set along the inner wall at regular intervals. Firenze's hooves made a muffled clacking sound against the wood.

The ramp finally flattened out. Firenze and I came through a set of huge, elaborately carved double doors, and entered a room so large that for a moment I wondered if the tree wasn't bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. It was as if the base of the tree had somehow been sunk deep underground and hollowed out, leaving behind this gigantic room with vaulted ceilings and columned walls and furniture that seemed to be growing straight out of the tree itself. _Curious furniture, too_, I thought as I followed Firenze across the room to where a lone centaur stood over a table, studying a piece of parchment. _Designed for creatures with four legs instead of two. _

"Magorian," Firenze spoke when we were close. He inclined his head respectfully; I followed suit. "I present Lady Ginevra Molly Weasley of the Gryffindor Tribe, daughter of Molly Renee Prewett and Arthur Septimus Weasley, also of the Gryffindor Tribe."

As Magorian rolled the parchment he'd been studying in quick, fluid motion and turned to face us, I ignored the fact that Firenze's introduction was suitable for an 18th-century royal court and instead tried to process just how _large_ Magorian really was. He stood at least a head taller than Firenze, who absolutely towered over me, and had a breadth across the shoulders and depth to his chest that was simultaneously calming and intimidating. His beard hung proudly down to the middle of his bare chest, and a thin circle of gold was nestled between muscles on his right upper arm.

I broke out of my reverie just in time to see him curl his upper lip into an unmistakable sneer that smacked of Severus Snape and Amycus Carrow. "Human foal," he hissed. "You are not welcome here."

I took half a step back from the ferocity of his glare, even as Firenze was moving to shield me. "This was discussed with the Elders," Firenze murmured. "The law of the Dwelling must be upheld."

"Do not speak to me of the laws of this Dwelling!" Magorian said, a deadly undertone lacing his voice. "I was there when they were written."

The echoes of Magorian's bass rumble faded into tense silence. Magorian stared at Firenze, who kept his eyes trained on the floor. I nervously shifted my weight from foot to foot.

"Child," Magorian said after a moment, the muscles in his jaw standing out sharply. "You are here against my better judgment. While I cannot overturn the will of the Elders, should you prove to be a threat to the safety or sanctity of Shanalore or the Dwelling, it is well within my rights to remove you from our society."

The way his voice dropped to an unimaginably low octave for the last few words left no question at all about what he meant by "remove."

"I'll be good," I said quietly, too scared to be embarrassed by how squeaky and childish I sounded.

He eyed me like a bug stuck to the bottom of his hoof, then transferred his stare to Firenze. "Grower Aloria has agreed to show the two-legs the ways of the Dwelling. Remind her to be on time for Evenstar, and inform me when..._it_ has returned to the castle."

Firenze inclined his head again and turned abruptly, ushering me before him. We were back up the ramp and into the fading sunlight before I felt my lungs kick in again. I put my hands on my knees, lightheaded. "What did I _do_?"

Firenze looked up at the sky. "Callisto and Io are in the same house, Ginevra."

"Brilliant. Thanks for the vote of confidence." I stood up and started plaiting my hair away from my face. "Okay. Where to now?"

"We will likely find Grower Aloria in the Grove," Firenze intoned, still staring at what I assumed were the moons of Jupiter. "Come."

He led me out of the clearing along a narrow path that, despite being lined on both sides by snow-capped trees, somehow still emulated the balmy spring evening of the clearing. The forest gradually shifted from pines and evergreens into a mix of deciduous and tropical trees that surely couldn't have existed in northern England without a considerable amount of magical assistance. We happened upon a particularly spacey centaur who told us that Grower Aloria could be found where the waves of the Rhea broke.

"The Rhea isn't even breaking this time of year," Firenze said in a tone that bordered on frustration, leading me further down the path. "The Growers can be so difficult."

"Just the Growers?" I muttered under my breath.

Firenze cocked an ear at me. "Is that sarcasm, Ginevra?"

"Hey, look at that, you're catching on." I started chastising myself for being rude, but wrote it off as an exercise in futility. Meeting Magorian had put me in a bitter mood. I didn't enjoy being treated like a child.

We stepped into a small-ish clearing, one end of which was occupied by a slightly built female centaur with a leather bag much like my own slung across her chest, which was covered by a band of dark red cloth-like material. She was reaching up into the tree overhead, tracing lines of bark with her fingers.

"Grower Aloria," Firenze called across the clearing. The centaur turned, sending a ripple through her waist-length, jet black hair, and smiled a dazzling smile that seemed to breathe life directly into my soul. I blinked. I hadn't realized that centaurs were capable of smiling at all, much less smiling like _that_.

She trotted across the clearing to us, light and graceful on her hooves. Once next to Firenze and I, I could see that Aloria must have been a young centaur; the top of her head was just even with Firenze's ribs and I could look up at her without getting a worrisome kink my neck.

"You must be Ginevra," she said, her voice a light trill that somehow reminded me of Luna. "It is truly an honor to meet you."

I blinked again, unprepared for my reputation to precede me, unprepared for a centaur that seemed to be roughly my own age, unprepared for the way Firenze was watching Aloria's face as though it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Hi," I finally managed. "It's nice to meet you, too."

"Magorian has asked that you show her the ways of the Dwelling, Grower Aloria," Firenze intoned. "He has also asked that you at least try not to be late for Evenstar."

She tinkled a laugh. "You may tell my father that Evenstar is still four months away, so sending reminders now hardly does anyone any good."

Firenze inclined his head to her, then to me. "I leave you in capable hands, and shall return at the Lunar Cresting. May the grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green."

"May the setting sun dwell lightly in your heart," Aloria and I chorused. We watched him trot away.

"It really is lovely to meet you, Ginevra," Aloria said, surprising me by reaching out to shake my hand. "This is what humans do when they meet, correct?"

I laughed and extended my arm up to meet hers. "Yes. And it's just Ginny, if you don't mind."

"Gin-ny," she experimented, seeming to roll my name on her tongue. "Very well. Come along, I have much to show you before night truly descends."

We spent the next several hours walking through the Dwelling and its adjacent paths and clearings. Aloria introduced me to every centaur we met, explaining centaur customs and answering my questions, which seemed endless. I learned about the Elders (a rotating council of eleven centaurs charged with governing the Dwelling), the Canopy (the giant oak tree that housed Magorian's meeting hall, dozens of smaller rooms, and the Dwelling's records), and Magorian himself: Aloria's father, distrustful of humans, and leader of the Dwelling for the past century and a half—which, of course, prompted an interesting question.

"Are centaurs immortal?" I asked as we made our way back to the Grove (the clearing where Firenze and I had first found Aloria, where the Growers worked).

"In the sense of never dying, no," she said, helping me cross a fallen trunk that was treacherous to a "two-legs" such as myself. "Centaurs can be killed be illness or injury. Barring such events, however, a centaur could live indefinitely."

"Who's the oldest centaur in this Dwelling?"

"Keeper Callan. We celebrated her half-millennium seven Evenstars past." For the twentieth time that night, she snapped a small sprig off a nearby tree, smelled it, and tucked it into her bag.

"She's five hundred and fourteen?" I asked, aware that my eyes were bugging out of my head.

"She will be at this coming Evenstar, yes."

"And Keepers are the ones who maintain the Dwelling's records?"

"Correct. Now, no more questions. We have not much time before the Lunar Cresting, and there is one more thing I must show you."

We'd returned to the Grove. Aloria closed her eyes and hummed a brief, haunting series of notes. A ball of light formed above her head, then burst into six orbs and flew to line the circumference of the clearing, bathing us in the pulsing, color-changing light I'd seen in the Canopy. She turned to face me, the lights throwing strange, dancing shadow-Alorias in all directions.

"I've told you of the Elders, the Keepers, the Watchers, the Lifters, the Speakers, and the Defenders," she said, producing something in a cupped hand from her bag. "You asked about the Growers, of which I am, and I promised to show you at the end of your visit."

She uncurled her fingers and showed me the single seed that rested on her palm. "The Growers are the highest order within the Dwelling. We do not like to—nor do we often need to—enforce the hierarchy, but our authority supersedes even that of the Elders, or of my father. Centaurs were brought into being for one reason, Ginevra Weasley, and that reason is to care for the forest: its creatures, spirits, and, above all, its plants. As Growers, we are responsible for—and to—the trees."

She folded herself gracefully to her knees, pushed the seed a finger's depth into the earth, then bent forward and placed both palms on the ground. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

It was simultaneously the most beautiful and the most eerie thing I'd ever witnessed. Somewhere between singing and chanting, Aloria intoned words that seemed to flit through to the deepest levels of my consciousness, stirring feelings of familiarity and newness and strength and hope and power. She spoke to the earth, to the seed, to the water, to the sun; they listened and sang back. I watched a tiny greet shoot spring from the dirt and twist upwards, reaching for the heavens. When she stopped, my soul felt abruptly empty, like I'd lost something terribly important.

Sprouting from the ground between her hands was a sapling that had to be at least five years old. "There," she said, straightening up and smiling happily. "Now you try."

I stared at her. "I'm sorry, what?"

She looked at me earnestly. "You try. Here," she added, reaching into her bag again and withdrawing a scrap of paper and another seed. "I wrote down the way the words are pronounced."

"You're kidding, right?" I looked at the piece of paper, scrawled with unintelligible symbols. "Can non-centaurs even do this?"

She cocked her head. "I don't know that a human has ever tried."

I bounced the seed on my palm. "So why would I be able to do this?"

She curled her long fingers around my wrist and gently bore me to the ground. "Firenze tells me that your spirit animal is a horse."

"If by 'spirit animal' you mean 'Patronus,' then yes, it's a horse. What does that half to do with anything? Just because I occasionally produce a cloud of silver gas in the form of a horse, you think I'm close enough to being a centaur to Grow something?"

She guided my hand to make an indentation in the ground for the seed. "Try. Feel for the Rhea and try to channel it into the seed."

"Yes, I'll just feel for the invisible river of energy that I only found out existed two hours ago and direct its force. No problem." The sarcasm burst from me before I could filter my words for politeness. "I can't even read this, Aloria. What language is it?"

"It has no name. Just...try."

I sighed in exasperation and pushed the seed into the ground. I folded earth over the hole and pinned the piece of paper to the ground above it with a rock, then set my palms flat, like Aloria had. I stared at the symbols, willing them to make some sort of sense or inspire sound. Failing that, I closed my eyes and contemplated this whole "Rhea" situation, trying to open my mind to the possibility.

Several minutes passed. An ant nudged my hand.

"Nothing's happening," I announced somewhat uselessly, sitting back on my heels. "I can't do it."

Aloria studied me for a moment, then dug the seed up and pressed it back into my hand. "We shall try again."

The gentle thud of hooves against packed earth—a sound I was already startlingly familiar with—caused us both to look over my shoulder; Firenze had arrived to ferry me back to school. "Ginevra, Grower Aloria," he said. "I trust your evening passed pleasantly."

"Oh, very much so," Aloria practically sang. "How was your evening?"

Firenze stared at her blankly for the briefest of moments. "Callisto and Io are in the same house."

Aloria nodded. "I have seen. May the grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green, Ginny. I look forward to your next visit."

"May the setting sun dwell lightly in your heart," I replied. "And thank you for everything." I tucked my seed into a pocket and followed Firenze back along the narrow path from the Grove to the Dwelling proper. We walked in silence, one of those color-shifting lights bobbing an arm's length in front of Firenze.

We were halfway across the main clearing—now occupied mostly by centaurs staring up at the stars—when an angry, whinny-like sound erupted nearby and the thunderous sound of galloping hooves approached. A slight whirl of dust rose as a centaur who nearly matched Magorian in size skidded to a stop in front of us, his chest heaving with rage.

"Bane," Firenze said lightly, as if we'd run into an old friend. As he spoke, however, he took several small, innocuous steps until his right foreleg was blocking me. "How passes your evening?"

"I'm not here to speak with you, brother," Bane sneered. "I am here to deliver a warning to the two-legs you brought into our woods."

"The warning has already been set out by Magorian," Firenze interjected, a hint of edge creeping into his voice.

Bane reared, snapping his front hooves into the air. "_I _am the leader of the Defenders, not Magorian."

_Defenders_, I thought, frantically cycling through everything I'd learned from Aloria. _Charged with maintaining the boundaries of the Dwelling and their protected territory. _

"Callisto and Io, Bane," Firenze stated simply, his words heavy with meaning I didn't understand.

"_You _are the Watcher, Firenze, not I. The movements of the astral bodies do not dictate my life as they do yours."

"That is where we disagree, brother," Firenze replied, mildly if somewhat sadly. "Please say what you have come to say and let us proceed."

"We disagree on a great many things, you and I," Bane said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper that somehow frightening me more than the yelling and kicking. "One of these days, we shall have a reckoning to sort out our differences." He turned his coal-eyed glare to me. "Foal. We of the Dwelling do not meddle in the affairs of wizards. It would go better for you if you would return the favor." He shot one last dirty look at Firenze, who pointedly studied a blade of grass, and galloped away. Firenze started walking again; I hurried to catch up.

I let out a whoosh of air and several curse words. "That's your _brother_?"

"Indeed," Firenze breathed quietly.

_And I thought Percy was bad_. "There's one in every family, I guess."

"If I'm adequately familiar with the human idiom you employed, I believe that _I _am the 'one' in question," Firenze mused as we stopped at the edge of the clearing so I could re-don my robe and cloak.

"What do you mean?"

"I believe another useful human idiom may be that I am the black sheep of my family. As a rule, my clan does not sympathize with the two-legs."

I tied my cloak under my chin and slipped on my mittens. "I'm sorry, Firenze. That must be difficult."

He nodded acknowledgement and offered me his forearm; I hoisted myself onto his back. We pushed through the forest—_Shanalore_, I corrected myself—in silence; I focused on sorting out everything I'd learned and trying to pick out helpful landmarks along the dim path. We seemed to have touched a nerve with the brief commentary on his family: he deposited me next to Hagrid's hut and, with a final exchange of the "grass-sun" farewell that I'd participated in at least three dozen times that night, galloped away rather abruptly.

I made my way back up to the castle quickly, trying to avoid stepping in snowdrifts. I dodged the lilac bunny sitting sentry on one of the staircases, narrowly avoided Amycus Carrow doing rounds, and made it back to my bed just as my watch chimed 3am. As I dropped onto my pillow, Fawkes came swooping in through his Rookery and deposited a furled piece of parchment on my forehead. I squinted at the short note, written in a broken, unfamiliar script.

_Ginny, _

_ Don't give up! Keep studying the incantation and reaching for the Rhea. You're most likely to be able to Grow in the Grove, but practice whenever you get the chance._

_ Aloria_

I flipped the parchment over and, sure enough, there lay the unintelligible symbols I'd tried to make sense of earlier that night. They inspired no more logic now than they had then.

"Bloody phoenix," I yawned. "Bringing me homework from centaurs. How in the hell did you even get to the Grove and back before me?"

In response, Fawkes cooed lightly and extended his elegant neck against the top of my head, apparently content to sleep there. I folded the parchment and stuck it under my pillow; maybe some ancient centaur knowledge would waft into my brain overnight. I feel asleep with haunting melodies, color-changing lights, swirling glyphs, and deadly threats from imposing centaurs three times my size circling through my brain.

[A/N]

Longest .Chapter. Ever. I tried to find somewhere to break it, but oh well. Forgive my adventure into my own imagination. I'm intrigued by the centaurs and the role they play. Back to Hogwarts in the next chapter!

Shanalore: SHAH-nuh-lore

Aloria: Uh-LORE-ee-uh

Rhea: RAY-uh


	18. Bartenders and Blackouts

[A/N] Last chapter of the first term. I probably could have made this (at least) three separate chapters, but where's the fun in that? Buckle your seatbelts.

**Chapter Eighteen: Bartenders and Blackouts**

There were days when it seemed impossible that life continued to chug along at Hogwarts despite the increasingly chaotic outside world. No matter how many of our friends died or disappeared, no matter how many new people declared allegiance to You-Know-Who, no matter how painful it was to hear the constant rumors of Harry's, Ron's, and Hermione's death, capture, or betrayal, Hogwarts went on. We ate. We slept. We went to class. We got demerits. At night, the older Gryffindors huddled around a Muggle radio Annie had bewitched to pick up Potterwatch, the show run by Fred and George. I spent Friday nights in the forest with Aloria and Firenze, Saturday mornings with Carrow in the dungeons, and the occasional Wednesday tea with McGonagall.

We blundered somehow into early mid-December. By that point, tales of my feud with Amycus Carrow were starting to become legend. I flat-out refused to perform an aggressive spell against any of my classmates and had taken to treating the class as a defense course regardless of the syllabus; I was certainly getting a lot of practice with shield spells. A random Fourth Year boy stopped me in the hall to ask advice on dealing with our beloved Dark Arts professor. Luna told me that the Ravenclaws had started referring to any action that went against Carrow's rule as "pulling a Weasley." Fred and George sent me a heavily encoded letter toward the end of November congratulating me on living up to the family name and being a proper little troublemaker in my own right.

It was difficult to keep the pride from going to my head.

* * *

"It's my birthday and I don't care," Meg announced, flicking Neville on the ear. "Bring me another Butterbeer and be quick about it."

It was December 13th, the last Hogsmeade Saturday of the term—and, coincidentally, Meg's seventeenth birthday party. We'd cancelled the traditional D.A. meeting (not much we could do in the next week of everyone cramming and panicking over exams), so instead Meg, Neville, Luna, and I sat at our favorite booth in the Hog's Head, watching the snow outside work itself into a blizzard and sharing a dubious-looking but delicious-tasting strawberry cake that Abe, the bartender, had produced for the occasion.

"I don't know how I'm going to survive exams," Meg sighed as Neville pushed away from the table. "The Divination practical is supposed to be almost eight hours long, and that's the same day as Muggle Studies, and that night is Astronomy—if the Ministry hadn't destroyed all the Time Turners, I'd be requisitioning at least two of them."

"You could ask a Linayan Mushroom Newt to clone you," Luna offered. "If you bring it enough sliced Oakberry leaves, it should do anything you ask."

"I'll keep that in mind," Meg said with a roll of her eyes.

"Cheers, Abe," I heard Neville call. I looked over my shoulder to see the white-bearded bartender wiping his hands on a rag as Neville precariously brought four mugs of Butterbeer back to our table. Even the mysterious Abe seemed to be getting into the holiday spirit; he wore a pair of felt reindeer antlers that tinkled a song that was probably supposed to be "Jingle Bells" when he moved, but had clearly been worn far too many years and now just sounded like a depressed wind-up toy. Wearing the ridiculous headpiece, he suddenly reminded me of someone.

Neville slid the mugs onto the table and promptly spooned the froth from his into Luna's; she gave him a winning smile that made him splutter.

"So, uh, Ginny, what's with the face?"

"What?" I asked, startled out of trying to place Abe in my mind.

"You've got your thinking face on."

"It's very similar to your pooping face, though," Meg countered. "So it's hard to tell."

"I'll forgive that because it's your birthday," I said. "I was just thinking—doesn't Abe look sort of familiar?"

We—except Luna, who was drawing mustaches on her face with the foam—squinted across the perpetually foggy room.

"If you're talking about him looking like Father Christmas, we had this discussion last year," Meg pointed out.

"No, Meg, be serious for a minute. He looks like someone. What's his last name again?"

"He's a bartender," Meg pointed out, her words slurring ever-so-slightly. "Bartenders don't have last names."

Neville shrugged. "I don't see it. It'll come to you if it's important. Anyway, can we get back to planning D.A. stuff, please?"

"No!" Meg protested. "I _told_ you: it's my birthday, no business talk."

"He's right, Meg," I said. "We have to figure some of this stuff out before the holiday because there's no way to talk safely when we're all home."

"Fine," she grumbled. "But I'm not going to be helpful."

"Like you ever are," I said, grinning and dodging her ear-flick. "Okay. I still think the most important thing is figuring out how to get supplies to the Room of Requirement."

"And I still think it's silly to worry about that," Neville interrupted. "The house elves take care of all that stuff for us."

"There's no guarantee they'll keep being able to do that," I argued. "What if someone starts keeping a closer eye on the kitchens? We're putting them in danger."

As we bickered, the storm outside got worse and worse. Neville finally called a cease-fire, saying that if we didn't leave for the castle then, we'd get snowed in. We were just starting to bundle up when, with the jangle of a dying, cymbal-clapping plastic monkey (Dad had six of them), Abe stumped to our table. "I need you to take a few boxes of Evergrowing Snagroots up to the castle," he said to none of us in particular. "Professor Sprout needs them for something and they seem to grow best in my own damn backyard. Told her I'd send them up with some students."

After a brief glance at one another, we nodded our consent and followed Abe back behind the bar, up a flight of treacherous stairs, and through a door into a small, cluttered-yet-tidy apartment. I looked around for boxes of the thorny, immortal Snagroots, but didn't see any. I was just starting to think that this was a bad idea when the door slammed and Abe whirled on us.

"What in the _hell_ are you lot thinking?" He demanded. "Talking about your damn fool resistance group right in the middle of my bloody bar. Did you not stop to think that someone might be listening?"

I shot to high alert. Luna was studying a large portrait of a young, somber-looking girl and Meg, who had clearly had a bit too much to drink, was lolling on the couch, so I exchanged panicked looks with Neville.

"What do you know about our group?" Neville asked cautiously.

"Are you joking? Everything!" Abe exploded. "You're in here every other week. Sometimes you whisper but mostly you don't—thinking nobody's listening—I can't believe someone hasn't squealed on you yet. Bunch of idiot students, thinking you'll just go to the Hog's Head because that's where all the shady stuff happens. What is _wrong _with you?"

It was only then—Abe upbraiding us, being all stern and disciplinarian despite the antlers sprouting from his head, white beard shaking with fury—that the connection I'd started to make early clicked into place.

"Dumbledore," I said, cutting off Abe's rant. His eyes narrowed on me.

"Ginny, what are you talking about?" Neville asked, sounding exasperated.

"You look like Dumbledore," I explained when I got my brain working again. "Nev. Doesn't he look like Dumbledore?"

Abe sighed and crossed to the tiny kitchen. He filled a kettle with water and set it on the stove.

"I dunno, Gin," Neville said nervously, coming to my side. "Just because he's got that beard?"

"She's right, Neville," Abe interjected. "I'm Dumbledore. A Dumbledore, anyway. Your Dumbledore was my brother." He proffered his hand. "I expect it's time I properly introduced myself. Aberforth Dumbledore, Albus' younger brother."

The next half hour passed as a game of Dumbledore Family History. Abe succinctly explained that when their mother was killed in an accident, Albus and Aberforth had had a huge falling out over who was going to care for their younger sister, Arianna (the girl in the portrait Luna had been looking at). A few years later, Arianna had also been accidentally killed. Abe refused to go into details, but it was clear that he resented our Dumbledore for the part he played in Arianna's death. The brothers had then parted ways. Our Dumbledore became a Professor and later Headmaster of Hogwarts; Aberforth saved up enough money to buy the Hog's Head Inn and Pub and lived a quiet life in Hogsmeade. Aberforth had joined the first Order of the Phoenix (which required a tangential explanation, as neither Luna nor Meg was familiar with the Order) at his brother's request, but they'd largely kept their distance.

By the time he stopped talking, my head was spinning, Meg was sober, Luna was trading silly faces with Arianna, and the snow was falling at an alarming rate.

"You can't walk back to the castle in this," Abe said, looking out the window. "You'd get lost or buried in a snowdrift in the first five minutes."

"Can we just stay here, then?" I asked. "Does the inn have an open room?"

Abe seemed to struggle with an internal dilemma, then a slow smile crossed his face. "Actually, I've got a way to get you lot back to the castle that'll also solve your supply problem. Arianna?"

His sister smiled, then turned around and walked deeper into her portrait, growing smaller and smaller until she winked out of sight into a tiny patch of light.

"I don't get it," Meg said after a few seconds of silence. "Where'd she go?"

"It's a tunnel," Abe said. "Well, kind of a tunnel. It connects to a portrait in the Room of Requirement. Arianna can take people through it. Albus came to visit me here once or twice through it, although that was years ago."

"That's not possible," Neville protested, reaching fingertips toward the canvas. "It's a painting, no one can—oops." He stopped talking as his fingers slid easily into the canvas.

Abe shrugged. "I've got no idea how it works, but it does, and that's good enough for me. You all need anything, Arianna can carry messages. No more talking about secret stuff in my pub, you hear?"

He helped Neville, Luna, and Meg into the portrait; I watched their painted figures retreat into the canvas when a thought struck me.

"Why are you helping us?" I asked. I braced my foot against the portrait's frame and amused myself watching the toe of my shoe shift between reality and paint.

Abe drained his mug of tea and poured himself another. "My brother and I didn't see eye-to-eye on many things, Ginny. We fought up until the day he died, and we left a lot of things unsaid when he passed. But he always said that his greatest responsibility was the safety of his students."

"I've heard that before," I said, feeling a small smile creep onto my face.

He nodded. "Well, I can agree with it. I don't think he always did the best job of living up to that responsibility—tended to get people in way over their heads, and you're a prime example of that—but it's a good principle. You kids up at that school? I figure you're the best chance we've got of kicking You-Know-Who's boney ass. If me sending you food every now and then and serving as an emergency exit helps keep you alive long enough to do that, then it's the least I can do."

I stepped my other foot onto the frame, not sure why I wanted to say what I wanted to say next. "Your brother was a good man, you know."

Abe literally threw back his head and laughed. "Ginny, my brother was a liar and manipulator who painted the world with whatever shades of grey suited his wants. He was a coward and a martyr who could be a real self-righteous little prick . He justified his collateral damage instead of taking responsibility for it. But he was human. And he was the very, very best of us. Now go; Arianna doesn't like leaving the tunnel open for very long."

* * *

"Leave it _alone_, Luke," I growled for the fiftieth time.

"I'm not going to leave it alone," he responded, also for the fiftieth time. "You're going on all these secret excursions into the woods to hang out with centaurs and not telling me about it. I'm your partner. We're supposed to talk about these things."

It was late, nearly four—so, really, it was very early on Friday morning. The last day of the term, accompanied by the last two exams of the term: Transfiguration in the morning, then Potions for Luke and Dark Arts for me. Luke and I sat alone in our usual corner in the Gryffindor common room; the other students had drifted upstairs one by one hours again. The week had passed in a blur of stress and sleep deprivation.

"Yeah, well, it has nothing to do with what we're supposed to be studying, which is that bloody Mallidian principle again, and I need to finish this so I can review the eight hexes that make people's eyes fall out or whatever it is and get to bed before dawn."

"We've known everything there is to know about the Mallidian principle since that night a giant kitten tried to eat us."

"Great, so, we're done studying?" I flipped my notes closed and stretched. "I'm going to review the Dark Arts stuff in my bed and hopefully dream about exploding Carrow's eyeballs. See you at breakfast."

I stood up to leave. His fingers closed around my wrist. I instinctively jerked out of his grasp. He chuckled and stood, hands held up in the universal I'm-unarmed gesture. "Easy there, killer. I just want to talk for a second."

"I told you, I'm not going to tell you anything more about the centaurs than I tell everyone in class. Some of the stuff is really private, and-."

"It's not about the centaurs. Can you just stop talking for five seconds and listen to me?"

I rolled my eyes and pantomimed zipping my mouth shut.

"Good. Now. This is going to be hard for me, so just...bear with me." He scrubbed a hand under his eyes, pushing his reading glasses up onto his forehead. "Things have been better between us recently, so I didn't want to bring anything up. But we never really talked about what happened at the Halloween ball. Or, for that matter, where you were that entire weekend and why you walked around like every single motion was painful that next week. But I assume that's D.A. stuff that you don't want to talk about."

I opened my mouth to confirm his assumption; he clamped a hand over the lower portion of my face. I promptly licked his palm, which earned me a look of disdain tempered by amusement.

"Really? I have two younger sisters, you think I haven't been licked before?" Nevertheless, he wiped his hand on his pants before continuing. "Me going to the dance with Daphne was stupid. Painfully so. But you have to understand—I was with Abby for almost four years. We knew that things would be difficult with me moving here, but we really thought—I mean—I loved her, Ginny. Honestly, truly, loved her. Breaking up with her was the right thing to do because it wasn't fair to her anymore, but it was still one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I was lonely and depressed and Daphne, despite being the truly horrendous person she proved herself to be that night, can be charming. I was flattered and idiotic and I'm a guy. I know none of those are legitimate excuses, but they're all I've got and I just wanted to say—before we leave for break and I don't talk to you for two weeks—I'm sorry."

At that moment, I knew my options.

I could tell him that I still wasn't over it and huff away upstairs, leaving him standing dejected in the common room—but that wasn't true. He'd worked hard to make it up to me since Halloween, and I knew firsthand how much breakups could really mess with your head.

I could accept his apology and acknowledge that everyone makes mistakes. We'd move on from this together, as friends. It'd be good and wholesome and honest. We'd laugh about some idiotic thing Daphne had said recently and go to our rooms.

Or I could ask the question that was on the tip of my tongue. The question that I knew was a leading question, the question that would probably get me into trouble, the question that I had to know the answer to, even though it was bad and stupid and mean of me to need to know.

"Why wasn't it fair to Abby anymore?" There. The words were out of my mouth. I immediately hated myself for asking.

He looked at me with those puppy-dog brown eyes I remembered from the first day of Transfiguration. Head slightly tilted, hands in pockets, hair all over the place, desperation and pleading and something else reading across his face. "You know why."

_Shut up!_ screamed a voice in my head. _Stop talking and go upstairs and leave this alone _right now_. Shut. Up. _

I let my head tilt to the side, mirroring his. "I don't, Luke. I don't get it." I heard the confusion and innocence in my voice and, in that moment, I hated myself.

He looked over my head. "It's not fair to stay in a relationship with someone when you have feelings for someone else."

Somehow, without me noticing, we'd wound up standing chest to chest, so close that I could feel the heat from his skin and see the pulse pounding in his throat. Bizarrely, another voice in my head commented that it was lucky that I wasn't a vampire. Every breath we took seemed to bring us closer together. His hand drifting up the side of my arm, brushing my hair off my collarbone, sending shivers through every inch of my body. One of my hands suddenly on his chest, right over his heart, hammering in time with mine.

His hand under my chin, lifting gently until I was looking at him. So close, so close, _so close so close_ _so close_

He abruptly turned my face to the side and brought his lips to my ear. His forehead rested against my hair as he spoke.

"You're Harry's girl. You've always been Harry's girl. I don't know if you always will be, but you are right now. I may be a little in love with you, but I'm not going to stand here and pretend that I don't know where your heart really is." He pulled back and looked at me hard, still with that desperation and pleading and what I now saw was anger blazing in his eyes. His hands tightened on my upper arms, a bruising grip that didn't hurt anywhere near as much as his next words. "Get your head straight over the holidays, Ginny. I know that you've had a bloody awful few months and that there's no sign of it getting better, but that doesn't excuse you being cruel."

He swept his books from the table and was away up the boys' staircase before I could think.

I collapsed into an armchair and cried until I fell asleep. I dreamed of Harry walking in on me and Luke; of Luke walking in on me and Harry; of Harry's empty, broken body in a grave; of Ron being tortured; of Hermione being captured; of my parents running for their lives...

* * *

Neville woke me up with a mug of coffee and half an hour before our Transfiguration exam started. Luke was already in the room when I got there. I slogged through the written part of the test with relative ease; years of being friends with Hermione had produced impeccable study skills. Luke and I performed the partnered bit of the practical efficiently, with not a word more said than was needed. I tried to catch his eye on the way out of the exam—not that I had any idea what I would say, but I had to say _something_—but he was away and studying with a few Seventh-Year Ravenclaws for their Potions exam before I could get close.

I picked at my lunch while Meg, Edward, and Colin studied for Dark Arts over my head.

The written portion of the Dark Arts exam was a blur of scribbled curses and descriptions of attack stances. I found myself last in the queue for the practical and settled onto the floor to wait my turn, trying to will myself into some sort of calm, stable mentality. If there was any way I was going to survive this, I needed to put last night—and the entire week—and the entire semester—out of my head.

Meg came out of the room looking pale, but gave me a tentative thumbs-up before heading off to dinner. Daphne was a few people later, and she laughed about how easy it was with a flip of her perfect golden hair. The room seemed to be sound-proof; smoke and flashing lights peeked through the crack under the door, but with no accompanying noise.

Finally, I was the last person in the hall. A Fifth Year Ravenclaw stumbled out of the room, pressing a hand to his lightly bleeding forehead, and waved me in.

The room was pitch black. I couldn't even make out where the desks were. I took a few tentative steps forward and hit the entire left side of my body on something tall and unyielding.

_What the hell?_

I side-stepped my way around the object. What was going on?

With a yell, someone flung themselves at me through the dark. I shrieked "_Protego!" _more out of practice than rational thought and felt the person thunk off my shield. They rolled—_I think, it's too dark to see a bloody thing_—and threw a clumsy slashing hex at me. I let my shield deflect it, then dropped the charm and shouted "_Expelliarmus! Stupefy!" _There was another thunk as the person hit the ground. I somehow managed to catch the wand that came flying toward in me in the dark, but nearly dropped it when I recognized the length and carving along the grip—_this is Crabbe's wand. _This _is the practical? Other students are attacking me? But I saw everyone leave..._

My inner monologue was cut short as another person leapt from somewhere to curse me. The next minutes—_fifteen? half an hour? two hours?_—passed in a blur of confusion and fear. The random sparks and spells shooting around me kept my eyes from adjusting to the lack of light, so I was in a constant state of almost-blindness. I fought at least six other opponents, defeating all without resorting to a single aggressive spell; I just shielded and waited for an opening to Disarm or Stupefy. Dodged spells burst against walls and sent jagged bits of rock flying everywhere. I found myself crouched against some form of column, panting, bleeding freely from a cut across my bicep and another along my jawline. I was just wondering how much longer this could go on when a familiar scream of attack jarred me into motion. Daphne.

I was beyond exhausted, so I blocked her first three attacks without attempting to retaliate. I knew from experience fighting her that she'd get frustrated and make a mistake soon enough; it was just a matter of waiting her out. As she realized my tactic, she grew more and more enraged and starting sending progressively more harmful spells. I'd only just blocked a curse that, if it had landed, would have caused each of my bones to exit my body through whatever skin happened to be close by, when Daphne shouted, "_Avada Kedavra!" _and shot a jet of green light at me.

In the split second I had to think, I chucked myself to the ground as hard as I could. I hit with a bone-jarring crash and felt the curse scream through the air overhead to detonate against the wall. The room's overhead lights flicked on. I screamed an _Expelliarmus _over the explosion, pocketed Daphne's wand from the floor when it landed, and sprinted to where Daphne lay on her back a few meters away. She looked at me with the utmost hatred and tried to get up; I put a foot on her chest and held her down.

Around us, the dust started to settle. I could see Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise lying around in the rubble. The room was a warzone.

"You shot a Killing Curse at me," I said through gritted teeth. "You shot a Killing Curse at me during an _exam_."

I stood over her, glaring, wand out, searching for that bit of reason and compassion in me that usually stayed my hand at a time like this. _Caution, restraint, tact_.

Carrow materialized behind me. "Surely you're not going to let that go unpunished, Miss Weasley? She could have killed you."

I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. I felt like fire was running through my veins. The end of my wand sparked; Daphne winced.

"She deserves it, though, doesn't she?" His voice, so silky like Snape's, so malevolent, so entrancing, spoke just behind my ear. "Think of what she's done to you. Think of everything she's said."

"Caution," I whispered under my breath. "Restraint. Tact."

I sensed his hands nearing my shoulders before they touched, his long, narrow, dirty fingers closing on my skin, sliding down to my elbow, redirecting my wand so it pointed directly at Daphne.

"You are a beautiful girl," he said into my ear. "A talented witch. There is fire within you. Do not let this go to waste." I shuddered. It felt like every single particle of my being was trying to get away from him. "Come with me to the Dark Lord. We are fascinated by you, Ginevra. You would be treated very...well." His hand closed around my hip, bare from where my shirt had ridden up during the fight.

I didn't even think. I whirled on one heel, gripped his shoulders, and pulled down while I threw my knee up with every ounce of strength left in my body. Seamus' hand-to-hand combat lessons roared into my mind as Carrow's breath whooshed out of him; I rabbit-chopped him in the back of the neck three times in quick succession. He collapsed to the ground and didn't move. I returned my stare to Daphne, who couldn't seem to decide if she was afraid or angry.

"You sent a Killing Curse at me during an exam," I repeated, both pleased and weirded out by how calm and steady my voice was. "Remember that. Because I sure as hell won't forget." I turned and started making my way to the exit, favoring my right knee and holding my ribs.

"Weasley," Daphne called just before I left the room. Incredulous, I turned to see what she wanted. "You've still got my wand."

I pulled her wand from my pocket, held it up, and snapped it in two. I threw the pieces on the ground and left the room.

I walked myself to the Hospital Wing, carefully taking back staircases and rarely-travelled halls to avoid anyone who might ask questions. As I limped along, I pondered the fact that I'd spent more time in the Hospital Wing in the past four months than in the previous six years of my Hogwarts education put together.

Madame Pomfrey screamed when she saw me and nearly dropped the mug she was giving another student—Luke. He caught it smoothly, but it slipped from his fingers when he processed what he was looking at. Between the two of them, they got me into a bed and force-fed me several potions that alternately made my bones grind and my skin boil. In between, I choked out the basics of what had happened, still not sure if I believed it myself.

"Mr. Callahan, can you stay with Miss Weasley?" Madame Pomfrey asked, looking more concerned than I'd ever seen her. "I need to speak with someone." She scurried away before Luke could protest.

I struggled to push myself into a sitting position. "It's all right. You can go. I'm fine."

"Ginny," Luke began carefully, but I was entering full-on babble mode.

"They'll probably expel me for this, right? I mean, they kind of have to, I attacked a teacher. And not just, like threw-a-book-at attacked, I mean full on attacked. And I broke Daphne's wand, which I'm pretty sure is something you're not supposed to do. You know, broken ribs hurt for a few weeks even after they've been healed. My mother is going to pitch a fit when she sees me."

Luke stopped me by simply putting his hand over mine. I felt tears burning at the backs of my eyes but forced them away. I was done crying. Carrow thought I had fire? I'd show him fire.

I took a deep, steadying breath. "I'm sorry about last night."

Luke looked at me. I suddenly saw the deep bags under his eyes. "I know."

We sat quietly for a few minutes. There was the occasional weird _shick_-ing as a bone popped back into place or a cut sealed.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be packing or hanging out with Jimmy and Ryan or something?"

"Headache," he said half-heartedly. He picked up the forgotten mug and looked sadly at its spilled contents. "Madame Pomfrey thinks I'm developing migraines."

"My mom gets migraines."

"Good, a talking point for when I meet her."

Madame Pomfrey came bustling back into the room, carrying another mug and looking frazzled. "Miss Weasley, you're to return to Gryffindor Tower as soon as you feel up to it and pack. Mr. Callahan, here is your potion. Drink it leave Miss Weasley alone while she rests."

"Pack?" I said weakly. "So, I've been expelled?"

She blinked at me. "What? Heavens no, child. The train leaves tomorrow morning for the holidays, doesn't it?

Luke winked at me over the top of his steaming mug.

"So...I _haven't _been expelled?"

She sighed and straightened her skirts. "There were enough spectators present at your 'exam' to testify that you acted in self-defense that Headmaster Snape has decided on a lesser punishment, to be discussed when you return from the holidays. Now, you rest and you, Mr. Callahan, get out of here."

Luke planted a kiss on Madame Pomfrey's cheek, called that he'd see me on the train, and skipped from the room. I watched him go, more confused than ever.

* * *

"Halfway there," Meg announced, twisting my wrist to get a look at my watch. "Is it just me, or does this ride seem to take longer every time?"

"It's just you," I said from where I sat on the floor, leaning against her knees. "Okay, I've got three kings, a harlot, two pairs of fishermen and a drunk knight. Do I win?"

Luke tipped my cards down so he could see them. "Do you _win? _No. Do you have a very entertaining royal court? Yes."

Padma threw her cards on the floor. "This game doesn't make any sense, Luke."

"It makes perfect sense!" He protested. "It's huge in the States. Or maybe just at Remington. But it makes perfect sense!"

The rest of us—me, Neville, Michael, Ryan, and Parvati—followed Padma's cue and tossed our cards into a pile. Fawkes, who seemed to have decided to accompany me home for the holidays, swooped down and rolled in them.

"I still can't believe what happened during your Dark Arts exam," Parvati said, shaking her head. "All I had to do was _Imperious_ a rat to off itself."

"Same," said Michael.

"I didn't even have to do a real spell," said Ryan. "Just showed the form for Blood-Stalling."

Meg's fingers tightened in my hair, then ruffled out the braid she'd been continuously braiding and unbraiding for the past hour. "Merlin, Ginny, I am so jealous of your hair."

The rest of the cabin took Meg's obvious change of topic as a cue to shut up. Luke gathered his cards.

"They asked me to hex a rabbit," Luna volunteered from where she hung from the baggage rack by her knees, playing with Meg's hair. "Instead I made the room play classical music so loudly that they had to delay the rest of the exams for twenty minutes."

"That was _you_?" Ryan asked incredulously. "There were still strains of Mozart playing when I was in there four hours later."

Amidst the general laughter, Meg stood up abruptly, dislodging me, and crossed to the window.

"Meg? Something wrong?"

She continued to stare out the window into the dark, snowy woods. "No? I don't...maybe. I have a bad feeling."

"You spent too much time studying for Divination," Padma chastised.

"No, I'm serious," Meg protested. Luna swung down and landed lightly beside me. "Something bad is going to happen."

"Of course something bad is going to happen," Michael yawned. "There's a war on."

Meg turned from the window, anger flaring across her face. I stood, alarmed—in the six years I'd known her, I'd never seen Meg get this sort of angry about anything.

The lights flickered; Fawkes trilled a warning.

Meg closed her eyes and, in a voice unlike her own, intoned, "They're here."

The train jerked and started slowing. The lights flickered again, then went out. I heard screams from a few cabins away.

Padma was the first of us to gather her wits. "_Lumos,_" she hissed, a small light flaring up at the end of her wand. The rest of us chorused the charm and looked around at one another, faces eerily lit from below. "Parvati, Neville, Michael, Meg, Ryan, we'd better go up to the Prefects' compartment and try to figure out what's going on," she said. "Someone's bound to get hurt if people start panicking."

My friends filed out of the cabin one by one with whispered be-careful's and quick hugs. Luna, Luke, and I stood looking at each other, listening to muffled clangs and distraught voices from the other parts of the train.

"It could just be mechanical," Luke said.

"It's a magical train, Luke," I said. "It doesn't break down."

Fawkes swirled overhead, obviously upset. I opened the window and let him swoop out into the free air.

An explosion up ahead rocked our cart; the deafening silence that followed was punctuated with screams, but a different sort of scream than before; not the sort of scream for the-lights-went-out-sweet-Merlin-I'm scared, but the sort of scream you let out when you were standing face to face with something that terrified you.

There was a blinding flash of light and a cloud of smoke as the door to our cabin slid open. I threw up my arm to protect my eyes and felt my wand wrenched out of my hand and thrown to the ground.

"Luna Lovegood," said a deep, gravelly voice that pulled at the recesses of my mind. "You're to come with us."

I blinked away the stars and smoke to see three Death Eaters advancing toward Luna, who at least had the presence of mind to be holding her wand up defensively. Luke was lying on the ground, bleeding from a wound over his temple.

"I don't fancy a picnic right now, thanks," she said cheerfully.

"Leave her alone," I coughed, stumbling over Luke's arm as I tried to stand in front of Luna. "We're students."

"Ah, Ginevra Weasley," said the shortest of the three Death Eaters. His voice was unfamiliar, but rang with a coldness I didn't care to know more about. "You may come with us too, if you like."

"Never," I breathed. Behind me, Luna wove her fingers into mine; I could feel her shaking.

"We could take you by force, you know," he said.

"Try it," I dared them.

He laughed. "I wouldn't dream of it. When you come to our side—and you will, Ginevra, don't doubt that for a second—you shall do so most willingly."

There was another blinding flash. My hand was torn from Luna's and I was thrown against the wall, held there by an invisible hand around my throat. I struggled to breathe.

"Stop!" I heard Luke shout. I squinted to see him staggering to his feet. "Leave her alone."

"Ah, young Bronte," said the Death Eater. "Have you come to your senses at last?"

"Get out of here," Luke said, blood streaming down the side of his face.

"The Dark Lord has tolerated your charade thus far because it amused him," the Death Eater said. "Do not try his patience."

"Not a charade," Luke forced out. "Leave us alone."

"Tsk, tsk," said the Death Eater. "What would your mother have to say?"

Luke swayed where he stood. "My mother is dead."

"Are you sure about that?" I could hear the smile in the Death Eater's voice as he watched the implications of his statement crash over Luke. Luke was silent.

My vision was dimming.

"Ah, well, a discussion for another day, then," the Death Eater sighed. He slashed his wand through the air in an angry, harsh gesture and Luke went catapulting into the light fixture, then collapsed in a heap on the ground. "Now then, Miss Lovegood, if you please?" He offered Luna a black-gloved hand.

"Leave me alone," she whispered, her voice shaking so hard that I could barely make out the words. Or maybe that was just my blood rushing in my ears.

"I must insist that you cooperate," he said. "We have your father."

Luna's already pale face blanched completely. One of the other Death Eaters took advantage of her stunned reaction to jump forward and take her wand. He fisted a hand in her hair and began dragging her out of the compartment. Her survival instincts seemed to flick on halfway through the door; she started kicking and clawing, putting up a silent but impressive fight. The Death Eater holding her merely clamped her arms to the side and lifted her bodily into the air.

We made eye contact through the window, her large, terrified blue eyes boring into mine. "I'll save you!" I tried to shout, but the hand on my throat and my lack of air made it come out as more of a whine. Her mouth moved as she said something back, but there was another explosion and the blood in my ears was so damn loud and my vision was blurry—whether from tears or lack of oxygen, I couldn't be sure—and all I could do was try to push the thought into her mind by sheer force of will. _I'll save you. _

Luna was whisked from my sight. The spell holding me lifted and I fell to the floor, head near Luke's knees. I took a gasping breath, but the black around the edges of my vision had progressed too far for a single breath to restore me. I held onto the thought as I closed my eyes and let my exhausted, oxygen-deprived, completely worn-out brain sink into the threatening grey.

_I'll save you. _

[A/N] ...and thus ends the first term of the year. If you've got thoughts, I'd love to hear them.

Sorry if you hate me for the Luke/Ginny scene. Sorry I'm not sorry for writing it. Personally, I don't think it's OOC at all for Ginny to have a lot of messy feelings.

Writing the Luna-gets-taken scene was physically painful.

The Word document I keep this story in is officially 100 pages long.


	19. Once More To The Burrow

**Chapter Nineteen: Once More To The Burrow**

The holidays were a bleak affair. Mum, Dad and I sat quietly in various rooms of the house, trying to ignore Spattergroit Ron's moaning. We travelled to see Bill and Fleur. Charlie wrote to say that he couldn't make it back from Romania. The Order of The Phoenix had an impromptu meeting in our living room late on Christmas Eve, quietly discussing the destruction of a house in Godric's Hollow. I sulked and raged and cried and screamed and rode my Cleansweep to the breaking point. Fred and George dropped in to say hello on Christmas day, both looking thinner and more wary than I'd ever seen them.

A few days after Christmas, I found myself hovering above the edge of our property, looking south to the hilly land where I knew Luna lived. It was crazy that all those years growing up, she'd been maybe an hour's walk away and I just never knew. Now she was gone, captured, probably hurt.

My broom shuddered under me. I'd been out for a few hours, and a haze of rain was weighing me down. I knew I needed to head back to the house soon, but I didn't relish the prospect of yet another night hanging out with my parents.

Far in the distance, a cloud of dust erupted just above the horizon. A few seconds later, I heard the explosion. A few seconds after that, a shockwave caught me and I tumbled over on my broom, doing a complete flip and managing to keep hold only through years of Quidditch training. _What in the hell was that?_

I tottered along the property line, debating going to find out what had happened. It looked like it could have come from the Lovegood's...

A rumble of thunder and the responding quiver from my broom made the decision for me. I flew back slowly to the Burrow, looking back over my shoulder all the while.

* * *

My parents had long since gone to bed. I brought a chair out to the middle of the snow-covered yard, built a small fire, and wrapped up in blankets to ring in the New Year by myself.

I stared up at the sky, trying to remember the last thing Firenze had told me about the alignment of the stars. Instead, I found myself turning constellations into familiar faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Luke, Meg, Luna, Neville, Bailey.

_How did this happen? How did everything get so messed up? _

Fawkes swooped out of the darkness and landed on my knee; he let out a string of plaintively sad notes.

"I miss them, too," I said, gently stroking the fragile feathers at the base of his wings. Pig huffed out of the house a few minutes later, carrying a squealing Arnold by the fluff. I conjured a small blue flame Hermione had taught me to make into a glass I'd been drinking Butterbeer from earlier and nestled it into the snow near my feet; my three pets jockeyed for position around it.

Midnight ticked closer. I started thinking through the events of the year, but had to stop that train of thought because I started getting too upset. So, instead, I thought about Harry. The Boy Who Lived. _My_ Boy Who Lived. Because no matter what Harry had said after Dumbledore's funeral, no matter how we'd left things, no matter what had happened between me and Luke, no matter how often Michael declared his feelings for me, Luke was right—I was Harry's girl.

I checked my watch: less than a minute left in the year. I stood up slowly, shaking life back into my frozen joints. I closed my eyes and extended my wand overhead, thinking of everyone we'd lost that year, everyone that was still lost. Dumbledore. The Minister. Dean. Hermione. Ron. Harry. Luna.

My watch chimed midnight. I shot a shower of golden sparks into the air and watched them light up the night sky.

"Happy New Year," I whispered to myself.

[A/N] Super short, I know! But a full chapter coming super soon (like, within the next few hours)!


	20. The Second Sorting

**Chapter Twenty: The Second Sorting**

The train ride back to school was painfully quiet, Luna's absence impossibly obvious. Meg, Neville, and I sat in corners of our compartment, engrossed in our own thoughts. Mine were dark. Meg was jumpy and shaken; her family had been ambushed on the way to King's Cross Station and only just got away. With about an hour to go before we reached Hogwarts, Meg and Neville were called to the Prefects' compartment and I was left with two birds and a Pygmy Puff. I preened Fawkes' feathers as Twilla had taught me, gently removing the fluffy baby feathers and smoothing the longer, glossy adult ones. I was just starting to doze with my head against the window when the door slid open and Professor McGonagall let herself in.

"Miss Weasley," she greeted. "I trust your holidays were pleasant."

_Not even slightly, _I thought, but just nodded. "Did you find a new house?"

She sank into the chair opposite me. "A charming little place outside Cheswick. It's rather too far from London for my taste, but it will do nicely. Now, you have the Sorting Hat, correct?"

I gaped. "What? No, why would I? I mean, how could I have gotten it?"

She cut off my rambling with a raised hand and amused expression. "Please, Miss Weasley, there's no need for that. I've known that the Hat was in your possession since the night you, shall we say, liberated it from Headmaster Snape's office. May I have it back, please?"

Feeling my cheeks flare, I dug through my bag until my fingers closed on the ancient fabric. I fixed a seam along the brim, loathe to give it back; over the past few weeks, I'd gotten into the habit of thinking out loud to it and it was sort of like giving up a friend. I decided that I wouldn't miss the ever-present undertone of condescension, however, and handed it over. "Why now?"

"In due time, Miss Weasley. Now, we have an hour or so until arrival; would you care for a game of Exploding Snap?"

* * *

The start of term feast was just as quiet as the train ride. Every table had new, notable absences. I was staring forlornly at Luna's abandoned seat when Luke nudged me gently in the ribs. "Where's Daphne?"

"You're the one shagging her, you tell me," I joked, leaning away from his retaliatory head smack. But, sure enough, Daphne's cluster of friends—Pansy, Blaise, a Sixth Year named Guy, and Daphne's younger sister Astoria—were Daphne-free. "I don't know. Maybe she up and joined the Death Eaters."

Meg's eyes narrowed. "She wouldn't do that. We shouldn't just assume."

I stared at her over a plate of half-eaten Yorkshire pudding. "What?"

The leftover food abruptly vanished from the tables. Snape stood up and waited for what little chatter there was to die down. I studied him while he waited. Was he a little thinner than I remembered? His hair was longer, certainly, and slightly unkempt. Deep purple bags under his eyes stood out sharply in his sallow face.

_Am I looking for weakness or sympathy? _

"Welcome back," he said. "There is not much to say. Updated copies of the student handbook will be distributed tonight by your prefects."

Seated at Snape's right hand, Umbridge gave a tinkling laugh that threatened to bring my dinner back up. A brief look of annoyance flashed across Snape's face, instantly replaced by his standard mix of indifference and contempt.

"Times are...dangerous," he continued. "I can only hope that those of you inclined to be troublesome have learned how low our tolerance for such indiscretions can be." His eyes flickered to me, the Patils, Neville, Michael. "I implore you to act wisely. Minerva."

Professor McGonagall stood up and walked around to the front of the table. "All First Year and other new students to the front of the hall, please," she calls.

The air in the room buzzed as the First Years and transfer students rose slowly and made their way to the front of the room. This was new.

"What's this about?" Luke whispered to me, taking his time to fold and place his napkin.

"I don't know," I said. "They've never done this before."

He squeezed my hand quickly and strode to the front of Great Hall, standing head and shoulders above most of the students there. He stood just behind Bailey Norren and put a hand on her shoulder; she looked up at him gratefully, worry plain in her eyes.

Once everyone was lined up, McGonagall swished her wand through the air and a familiar stool bearing an even more familiar hat blinked into existence; the room exploded with shouts of mixed excitement and confusion. McGonagall shot several rounds of sparks into the air and, when she had everyone's attention again, spoke.

"Over the holiday, the Sorting Hat indicated that it wishes to resume its duties of placing students in the appropriate Houses," she said. "It seems that a certain student, who shall remain nameless, impressed upon the Hat that doing one's duty to the school may, at times, be more important than one's personal comfort."

_Am I blushing? I feel like I'm blushing._ I thought rapidly through every conversation I'd had with the Hat over the past months. Nothing specifically in line with what McGonagall said jumped to mind, but she couldn't very well be talking about anyone else.

"To that end," McGonagall continued, "I am pleased to announce that the official Sorting of the new students will now commence. The Hat has no song prepared, so we will move on. When I call your name, sit on the stool. I will place the Hat on your head and you will be Sorted. Arlington, Dames."

The entire school watched with bated breath as Dames, one of the First Year Slytherins that Bailey was constantly fighting with, plopped himself on the stool. Seconds later, the Hat shouted, "Slytherin!" and Dames, looking incredibly pleased with himself, flounced back to his table.

It seemed like the Heads of Houses did a decent job of Sorting at the beginning of the year; the first ten or so students merely received confirmation of their House and walked back to their tables with relieved smiles. The Hat took less than a minute with each student; in most cases, less than thirty seconds. In fact, we'd all pretty much started ignoring the Hat's proclamations until Bailey was called forward. McGonagall placed the Hat on her head and Bailey perched on the stool, swinging her legs absently. The Hat did not speak. After a few moments, the Hat still hadn't not spoken. Bailey's legs stopped swinging and she mouthed something I couldn't make out. Another few minutes of silence passed, and every eye in the room was riveted on little Bailey Norren, every breath was held.

The rip at the brim opened. It paused.

"Gryffindor," it proclaimed into an entirely soundless room.

Bailey's tie abruptly flared from green and silver to red and gold. McGonagall took the Hat from Bailey's head as she leapt from the stool, ran to me with tears in her eyes, and chucked herself into my arms so hard that I nearly fell off the bench.

"Shh," I whispered, stroking her hair, almost crying myself, ignoring the stares. "Welcome home, Bailey."

After Bailey, four more of the First Years switched Houses: one Ravenclaw to Hufflepuff, one Hufflepuff to Ravenclaw, and two Slytherins to Ravenclaw. The Second Years all stayed in their original Houses, but one Third Year Slytherin boy whooped happily as his tie switched to Ravenclaw's blue and bronze and one of the Drecker twins (Fourth Year girls who'd been placed in Ravenclaw) was transferred more demurely to Gryffindor. The Fifth and Sixth Years all stayed the same, and then it was down to the two Seventh Year transfers, Slytherin Minnie Bolt and Luke.

Minnie , unsurprisingly, stayed a Slytherin, and Luke stepped nervously up to the stool. The Sorting Hat fell just above his ears, so we could see his face as the silent conversation transpired. He flicked between expressions rapidly, settling on confusion mixed with resignation. The Hat didn't speak. Luke removed it himself and handed it to McGonagall.

"It says it can't sort me because I don't belong here," he said quietly, looking at the floor between McGonagall's shoes. His voice was shaking, but the words carried through the perfectly silent hall. "It says that my loyalty to my old school is too strong. It says I can stay in Gryffindor until I graduate, but that's only so that I'll have a place to sleep. It says I'll never be a true Gryffindor."

He left Great Hall quickly, almost running out the doors. As he passed, I could see that his tie had faded to a dull grey. I wanted to stand up and go after him, but Neville caught my eye, gestured to Bailey, who was still quietly crying tears of happiness on my lap, and left in pursuit of Luke.

The hum of disbelief and excited conversation started. Snape moved to dismiss us, but McGonagall paused him and asked us all to remain seated. We looked around, wondering what else was in store, but the cause became obvious almost immediately. There was a single hand up in the air at the Slytherin table.

"Excuse me," said the voice belonging to the owner of the hand. "But could I maybe be Sorted again?"

There was a collective intake of breath and everyone craned their heads to see who that person could possibly be. I couldn't shift to look with Bailey on my lap, but her hand tightened on mine. "Graham," she breathed.

He stood up and, sure enough, it was Graham Pritchard, the Fourth Year Slytherin that Bailey tried to get us to consider as a member of the D.A. a few months earlier.

McGonagall looked up to Snape; they seemed to have a silent but fierce conversation. Snape opened his mouth to respond to Graham's request, but the Hat was talking again—no, not talking. Singing.

_I regret my actions earlier this year,  
__and though perhaps my motives may be yet unclear,  
__the only Sortings that can be truly redone  
__are those done by ones not fit to Sort.  
__I have changed certain Houses on this day,  
__but alas, Graham Pritchard, a Slytherin you stay.  
__Do not despair of this, as much you've lost can still be won;  
__there is no shame inherent in any House,  
__there is no shame in being both lion and mouse.  
__There is a fire here, who shall be the one to douse?  
__So be brave, young hearts, and you will not fall short.  
__Be brave, young hearts, for there's a plan that you must thwart._

Silence.

"You are dismissed," Snape said, staring at the Hat as though he might be able to make it burst into flames if only he try hard enough.

We filed quietly from the room; I saw Slughorn envelop a distraught-looking Graham in one huge arm and lead him out. I let Bailey tug me toward the door, babbling under her breath about how excited she is to tell her mum.

* * *

I found Luke much later than night, after introducing Bailey to her new Housemates, receiving my new Hogwarts Helpful Handbook ("Now with 60 New Guidelines!"), and getting a revamped personal hourglass (Umbridge had decided that I needed one that allowed me to rack up more than 100 demerits; my new, slightly larger hourglass permitted 150 points against me). He was sitting in the nearly empty common room, staring blankly into the fire.

I folded myself into the chair across from him. "Hey."

"It's fine," he said slowly. I started to say something that I hadn'tt quite figured out yet—maybe something about how no one cared what House he is or isn't in—but he talked over me. "No, listen. I've been thinking, and Nev made a lot of really good points, and the truth is that I guess I really do first and foremost think of myself as belonging at my old school, in the States. I mean, I like the Gryffindors that I know, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and even that little Bailey kid that was in Slytherin isn't half bad, and I'm glad the Sorting Hat said I could stay here, but I've never really fit. And I could kill myself trying to prove that I'm a true Gryffindor, but what would be the point? I'm in my last term and then I'm out of here."

I nodded carefully, wishing not for the first time that I could understand what was going on in his head. "All right. If you're sure."

He smiled, maybe the first genuine smile I'd seen from him in months. "I do really hate this tie, though," he amended, picking at the piece of grey fabric tied around his neck.

"_That _I can help with," I said. I twirled my wand between my fingers, thinking for a moment, then pointed at his tie and uttered a short, oddly inflected phrase Hermione had taught me years ago. The fabric on his tie shimmered and abruptly became rows of colorful cupcakes dancing on a field of yellow. Luke burst out laughing, repeated my phrase, and his tie showed Roman gladiators doing backflips. We wasted the next hour or so flicking his tie through the most ridiculous designs we could think of and talking and finally fell asleep in our chairs.

[A/N] Sometimes I think I'm dropping too many hints. Then I consider that this story is approaching 70,000 words. I need a new hobby. At any rate, enjoy, review if you're so inclined, and stick around!

Conservative estimate: The entire story will be 35 chapters long. This is based on no logic except my piecemeal timeline.

Oh and for those of you who've been asking/guessing, I'm not basing my characterization on anyone in particular, but as I read through my own work I see definite similarities between my** Neville and Rory Williams** (of Doctor Who), my **Michael and Gale Hawthorne ** (of Hunger Games), and my **Firenze and Castiel** (of Supernatural). There's one more parallel I could draw, buuuut it'd give too much away. And yes, Inky, your guess at the **Dwelling/Ellesmera **likening was quite astute :)

Next chapter is almost done and centaur-centric. Get psyched.


	21. The Calling

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Calling**

For what seemed like the eight thousandth time that class period, I felt the spell lose power. I barely had time to throw a Cushioning Charm against the wall before the force of the recoil threw me, spinning, across the room; I hit hard despite the layer of invisible mattress and bounced to the floor to a chorus of sympathetic "Oohs" from my Transfiguration classmates.

Well. Almost all of my Transfiguration classmates.

"This is hard enough with a bloody partner," I grumbled, accepting Neville's hand up. "How in the hell am I supposed to do it on my own? Luke sure picks convenient times to be sick."

"You're doing better than most of us that do have partners," Neville offered comfortingly. To prove his point, Julia and Brighton's side of the room was suddenly filled with bright orange fog that smelled strongly of Ron's socks. They ran out of it, coughing and covered in what looked like purple mushrooms.

"All right, so I'm not nearly as awful as they are," I conceded. "But still. Luke's a prick."

"He can't help when he gets sick," Neville said. "The climate over here must not agree with him or something. Maybe it's the water. Or the pumpkin juice."

"Yeah, maybe. You said he's up in the Hospital Wing?"

"Took him there myself last night when he started looking particularly peaky. He mumbled some stuff about it 'not being time,' or maybe 'not having enough time," but I ignored him. Poor kid was burning up." He hurried to the other side of the room at Parvati's beckon.

I considered Neville's words. What if Luke really was sick? Not just the kind of sick where he got colds and 24-hour-bugs a lot, but the sort of sick that couldn't be cured? And then an even worse thought sprang, unbidden, to the front of my mind.

_What if Luke is dying? _

He'd told Neville that he didn't have "enough time." And he'd said something about time after the Second Sorting, about not having much of it left. I'd assumed that he just meant not having much time left here at Hogwarts, but what if...

I shook my head, refusing to let that train of thought go any further. I resolved to go up to the Hospital Wing that night, before my trip to the Dwelling, and talk to him.

* * *

"What do you mean, he's not here?" I asked, feeling my brain kick into overdrive even as I waited for the answer.

Madame Pomfrey huffed a sigh—she clearly had more important things to do than answer my questions. "Mr. Longbottom brought Mr. Callahan to me late last night. I gave Mr. Callahan the appropriate medicine and, when he was feeling better, allowed him to leave early this morning. He. Is. Not. Here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have patients to attend to that do not make me repeat myself." She flipped her skirts and walked away, leaving me standing in the door to the Hospital Wing, feeling foolish.

_No, not foolish_, I thought. _Angry. Angry and suspicious_.

It was definitely possible to make yourself appear sick, I mused to myself as I began to walk through the castle. I'd learned that much with Fred and George for brothers. Fake a fever, act delirious—but why? What reason did Lucas Callahan have to pretend to be sick?

_Maybe because his real name isn't Lucas Callahan_, whispered a nasty little voice in the back of my head.

_No. I know him, and I trust him. _

_ You trusted Tom Riddle five years ago, and look where that got you. _

_ I was eleven._

_ And now you're sixteen. Sixteen, and just as stupid. _

I found myself at the double doors leading outside and pushed them open harshly, showing my Snape-authenticated note granting me permission to leave the castle after hours on Fridays to venture into the Forbidden Forest to the baby blue hedgehog that sat on the steps. I walked quickly down to Shanalore, past Hagrid's hut, and _Lumos_-ed my wand, casting around for the trail that would take me to the Dwelling. I'd long since mastered the twisting, complicated journey on my own and knew that Firenze would be waiting for my just outside the Dwelling's boundary. I moved quickly but quietly through the trees, saying hello to a few of the larger ones whose names I remembered from excursions with Aloria or Firenze.

"Ginny, girlfriend!" Aloria trilled once I broke into the tiny meeting space where Firenze usually waited for me. "What's groovy?"

I snorted back a laugh. Despite my repeated attempts to tell her that it wasn't necessary, Aloria was intent on proving her friendship to me by mastering human customs—most of which she seemed to be learning from a handbook of long-dead catchphrases.

"It's good to see you too," I managed. We crossed into the Dwelling and paused for me to drop off my outwear. "Where's Firenze?"

"Otherwise occupied," she replied. "He sends his regrets that he hasn't seen you over a moon, but he is rounding with the Defenders at the moment. We shall see him shortly."

I blinked and started after her, jogging a few steps to catch up. "Why's he rounding with the Defenders?"

'That's Dwelling business, Ginny," she said gently. Her face visibly brightened. "Don't look so worried! Keeper Callan has requested an audience with you!"

"Keeper Callan? Like, 500-year-old Keeper Callan?"

"The very same." Aloria walked a little faster, pushing me to a steady jog. "She has been most insistent about meeting you."

I blinked a few times. "Is there protocol for this?"

"Protocol?"

"You know, like how when you meet a Defender from a different Dwelling, you're supposed to do that awkward knee-behind-knee bow thing that I'm so awful at. Is there protocol for meeting a Keeper who's, what, thirty times older than you?"

"Thirty-two times, actually. And no. We, the Dwelling's Growers, need only be polite to a Keeper, no matter their age or rank."

"Okay, but I'm not technically 'of the Dwelling,' and I'm not a Grower, and—Aloria, why are we going so fast?"

I stopped in my tracks, and clasped my hands behind my head, trying to catch my breath. I exercised regularly to stay in shape for Quidditch, but I'd been full-out sprinting for at least thirty seconds and still losing ground. Aloria circled around and trotted back to me. "My apologies, Ginevra." She offered me her arm in a now-familiar gesture and I swung up onto her back. "I will explain as we travel. We are moving so quickly because our time is limited—you must be safely back in the castle before tonight's Lunar Cresting. These woods will not be safe tonight for any creature not born and raised within them. As to your other points, I still believe that you posses the potential to contribute to our Growings. You were, however, right when you said that you are not, by birth, of the Dwelling. I mean to change that."

We emerged into a clearing I'd seen only once or twice before—a small, circular space surrounded by oak trees that were caught in a permanent state of autumn. The setting sun cast rays in shades of purple and red and gold. An orb of light floated in the middle of the clearing and, unlike every other light I'd ever seen in the Dwelling, it glowed a constant, warm, pure white. Two centaurs stood to one side of the orb, chatting quietly: Ronan, with whom I'd spent a pleasant December evening learning to talk to tree spirits, and a thin, white-haired centaur who was somehow emitting her own faint glow.

"Keeper Callan!" Aloria exclaimed, helping me slide back to my own two feet. "I was not expecting you so soon. I have yet to explain the process to the foal."

"It's better she doesn't know too much," Callan replied, trotting toward us. Ronan followed sedately. Callan stopped when she was an arm's length away and looked me up and down; I couldn't help returning the favor. Up close, there was no indication that this creature had been alive since the 16th century besides her shock-white hair; if not for the glow that slightly blurred her outline, as though she were in danger of fading into pure energy at any given moment, I would have assumed she was just another typical adult centaur. "The less a foal knows, the more truthful they are. Speaker Ronan and I will begin the preparations."

Ronan inclined his head to me. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Ginevra Weasley. I am honored to participate your Calling." He and Callan both returned to the orb of light, placed their palms on its surface, and took up that strange humming/singing that never failed to make my hair stand on end.

I looked up at Aloria. "What's going on?"

"This is a Calling, Ginevra. Four members of the Dwelling, all from different orders, to guide you through a communion with Rhea that will initiate you into the Dwelling. It is how foals become full members of the Dwelling; it is also how lone or displaced centaurs may find a new home."  
"Aloria. We've talked about this. I'm not a centaur. You can't keep expecting me to do centaur-specific things. I've never been able to contact Rhea before, why should now be any different?"

"I believe that this is precisely why you've not been able to," Aloria countered. "I would never expect an un-Called foal to be able to Grow, or Speak, or Lift. Once you are a full member of the Dwelling, your connection with Rhea should be solidified."

"A full member of the Dwelling? Like, an honorary centaur?"

"Not honorary at all," interjected Firenze, stepping from behind one of the oak trees. He and Aloria exchanged small smiles; Aloria moved to the center of the clearing and took up a place between Callan and Ronan. You will be a centaur in every aspect but the physical. All the rights and responsibilities associated with being one of the Dwelling will be yours."

I let out a breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding; in the center of the circle, the orb of light pulsed once and began to expand. Callan, Ronan, and Aloria stepped back steadily, keeping their palms in contact with the orb while adjusting for its growth. "Has this ever been done before?"

"Has a human ever been inducted into a Dwelling? Not successfully, no."

"Not successfully?"

Firenze shifted his piercing gaze to the stars, a gesture I'd come to realize meant that he was preparing to dodge a question. "The three humans who have attempted the task did not survive."

"They _died_? If I don't do this correctly, it will _kill_ me?" My heart picked up a steady thrumming that didn't feel entirely healthy.

"No," he said sharply. "If you do not succeed in communing with Rhea, we will have exposed the greatest, most closely guarded secret of the Dwelling to an outsider who can never be fully bound by Rhea's energy. If you do not do this correctly, Ginevra, _we_ will have to kill you. And then we will give ourselves to Rhea in repentance."

My heart is throwing itself against my ribcage, trying desperately to escape. "So all four of you will die, too."

Firenze shifted his gaze to another cluster of stars. "Callisto and Io-."

"So help me, Firenze, if you say that Callisto and Io are in the same house—and they're not, even, you know, I had Astronomy last night and they're in opposition right now—will all four of you die if this doesn't work?"

"Not die so much as dissipate into pure energy. But yes, I suppose."

Every breath feels like knives. "I can't let you do this. I can't be responsible for your lives."

"We've already committed," said Firenze. "We have willingly tied ourselves to your Calling." I stammered, looking for a way out of this. "Hush. The rest is up to you. Be brave, dear heart."

I filed "Be brave, dear heart" away in my head under "Things to Think About Later"—it reminded me of something, though I couldn't pinpoint what—and focused on what was happening. Firenze ushered me into the middle of the clearing so that I was standing near the orb, which was now a perfect sphere of light about twice as tall as me. He moved back to the perimeter of the clearing. The four centaurs, spaced equidistant, took up the singing hum, clapped their hands once in unison, then spread their arms wide; a thin band of light circled the entire clearing, spanning from hand to hand, enclosing me in a ring with the orb.

_What the bloody hell do I do now_? When it became clear that none of the centaurs were going to prompt me, I turned to face the glowing sphere. The surface looked smooth and inviting, with the colors from the setting sun dancing over its curves. I drew a deep, steadying breath, tried to clear my mind as Aloria had taught me, and put my hands on the surface.

The sphere thrummed under my skin. It was...alive? Somehow...yes. It was alive. There was something else, something I couldn't quite understand, but maybe if I...I pushed a little harder, surprised to feel the surface give a little, but, then again, not surprised by that at all...I pushed a little harder, a little harder, understanding more and more, and then my hands slid in and I threw my entire being after them.

* * *

I am drowning in a sea of light.

* * *

I was suddenly and completely revived, seating against a tree, two centaurs beaming at me with a brilliance that matched the still-glowing orb, now returned to its original size, matching the burning burning burning in my chest, right inside my heart.

"It worked," I croaked, surprised to find that my throat is sore and cracked. I suppose it's not that surprising, though; at times I felt as though my entire body was on fire.

"It did," confirmed Callan, the note of surprise in her voice just barely discernable. "You have been Called as a Grower."

My watch dinged at me. 2AM.

2AM.

"Two in the _morning_?" I ask incredulously. "I didn't even get out here until 7—what happened? And where're Ronan and Firenze?"

"Ronan has his duties as a Speaker to attend to," Aloria explained. She looked practically beside herself with glee. "Firenze, as I mentioned earlier, is rounding with the Defenders. Your Calling did take longer than most, but it's nothing we did not anticipate. However, we have missed the opportunity to return you to the castle prior to the Lunar Cresting, so now you must stay within the safety of the Dwelling until Lunar Descension."

My brain was still all jumbled and full of light. "So, I missed the moon coming up, so now I have to stay until the moon goes down?"

Aloria chimed a laugh. "Your vernacular is astonishing. The time lost is of no consequence; Keeper Callan still wishes to instruct you, and she has agreed to return you to the castle once it is safe." She pulled something from her bag and handed it to me: an ornate silver locket, strung on a necklace long enough to fit over my head without being unclasped. It was embossed with a symbol I didn't recognize: some sort of shield or coat of arms.

"It's beautiful, Aloria, thank you. What's it for?"

She tapped my right front pocket, where I stored the seed and incantation she'd given me months ago. "I worry about you keeping her in a pocket. Too easily lost."

I scowled at her. "I don't lose things." But, nevertheless, I folded the parchment into a tiny square and deposited it and the seed carefully inside the locket, then settled it under my shirt. The cool metal against my skin reminded me of the burning inside my chest; I pressed a hand against it.

"Is this going to go away? The feeling that my heart is going to catch fire?"

"It will diminish with time," Aloria said. "But you will always be able to feel the spark of the setting sun dwelling in your heart."

_Oh. _

"Your further questions may be directed to Keeper Callan," Aloria said, clearly enjoying the look of realization on my face. "I wish I could stay so that we might trying Growing again, not that you've been Called, but I have other duties to attend to. May the grass beneath your hooves be ever soft and green."

"May the setting sun dwell lightly in your heart," I replied, ecstatic that I finally, truly understood the meaning of the centaurs' farewell. Aloria galloped off.

Callan offered me a hand. "Lunar Descension is in three hours' time, Grower Ginevra," she said. "I have much to tell you in that time, and I am certain that you have a great many questions. Let us deal with your queries while we return to the Canopy."

I pulled myself to my feet. "Magorian doesn't know about this, does he?"

We walked slowly, trading question and answer, a few stray balls of pulsing, color-shifting light following us like puppies. "No, he does not. Magorian, as I am certain you have realized, does not look kindly upon outsiders, or change of any sort."

"Why is that?"

Callan sighed. "Magorian is a good centaur, and a brave leader. He was a strong Defender in his day, one of the best this Dwelling has ever seen. But you must understand, he is not the true leader of this Dwelling. He is not our king."

"He's not? Then...who is?"

"His elder brother, Wilus. A century and a half ago, the events foretold by the stars convinced Magorian, Bane, and a great deal of the Dwelling that it would be best if we were to erase our presence from the human world entirely. Live silently among the trees, allow ourselves to fade into mythology. These foretold events were the rising of your Dark Lord, Ginevra."

"He is _not_ my Dark Lord," I said so fiercely that the trees rang with my voice. "Never. Not _mine_."

"Peace, foal, I meant no offense. We saw that the Dark One would rise, and Magorian wanted us to hide away in safety until the threat passed. Wilus, however, desired the opposite. He sought to embroil us in the affairs of wizards and ride out to fight. And, as he was our king, that was what we prepared to do, until Magorian, backed by Bane and many others, overthrew him. Wilus left the Dwelling—indeed, left Shanalore entirely—and has not been heard from since."

"Where did he go?"

We'd reached the Canopy, that giant oak tree in the main clearing that housed the records, the Elders, and Magorian's meeting room. Callan gestured for me to put my hand on the bark; it was all I could do to keep from squealing when I felt it conform under my hand, twisting into a door. _It really worked. The Calling really worked. _

"No one knows what has become of Wilus. There are certainly a great many who feel that he has perished, which is particularly hard for his son, Ronan, to hear."

"Ronan is Wilus's son," I clarified, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Of course."

"Yes. It is also possible that Wilus was Called to another Dwelling. Or perhaps he is roving, as lone centaurs are fond of."

Callan lead me through several twisting paths within the tree and finally pushed open the doors to a huge library, constructed in that same half-built, half-grown fashion I'd seen in Magorian's meeting room on my first day in the Dwelling. Books and tomes and parchment and leaves the size of my chest bound into books and long, thin pieces of bark carved with various languages were stacked neatly on every available surface.

"The Dwelling's Records," Callan announced. "Every bit of knowledge we have, every movement of every star, every name of every plant. This is where we keep it. This is where I Keep them."

* * *

The baby blue hedgehog sang a single stanza of "Naughty, Naughty Children" at me as I stumbled back through the doors around 6:15AM; I nudged it out of the way with my foot and continued on. I was exhausted, freezing, emotionally drained, and had a blister forming under my left heel, but I was happy. The flare in my chest that marked my connection to Rhea had shrunk into a small, steady flame that burned just centimeters away from the spot where the locket containing my seed touched my skin. It felt remarkably similar to how the explosions that happened when someone really ticked me off started; kind of slow and simmering, but you knew that there was enough power there to level a building. I let that flicker propel me toward the kitchens: it was too early for Saturday's breakfast to be served in Great Hall, but with any luck I could get Chives, Preeti, or Twilla to take pity on me and perhaps provide me with some oatmeal and hot chocolate. I'd miraculously avoided getting detention that week, and it was still too cold for Quidditch, so I thoroughly intended on going up to bed and sleeping until dinner. I tickled the pear in the portrait, stepped through into the kitchens, and was met with the friendly bustle of the house elf staff—and someone who I hadn't expected to see. Someone I'd almost forgotten existed over the insane course of the night.

Luke.

He sat at an out-of-the-way table in the corner, a cup of tea frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on me.

I tried to determine what my predominant emotion should be, but decided I was too tired to make the choice and stalked over to him, plopping myself into a seat across the table. A house elf popped up near my elbow, deposited a bowl of oatmeal on the table, a mug of hot chocolate in my hand, and a napkin in my lap.

I took a long sip of the chocolate and let it spread through my veins before speaking. "You weren't in the hospital wing last night."

Luke set his tea down. "No."

I stayed silent. Ate a few bites of oatmeal.

"Would you believe me if I said I was delusional with fever and wandering around the castle, hopelessly lost?"

I started to narrow my eyes, but gave up. I sighed and sat back, folding my legs under me, cradling the mug to my chest. "Honestly, Luke, I'm too tired to play mind games with you. I spent yesterday afternoon attempting to do complicated, dangerous partner spells by myself, I spent the past twelve hours in the woods getting inducted into a centaur tribe which, I'm starting to realize, is way more dangerous and complicated than I thought, and in between those two activities I got convinced that you were dying of some horrible chronic disease, but when I went to find you, you'd checked yourself out of the Hospital Wing. I've got maybe half an hour of sanity left in me, and that's a liberal estimate, so how about you just tell me the truth and we call it a day?"

Luke rubbed at his eyes with dirt-smeared hands. He spoke with his hands still covering his eyes. "I was in the Forbidden Forest, too."

I took another long pull of hot chocolate. "Yeah, sure you were."

He dropped his hands, and I noticed for the first time just how bloodshot his eyes were. I also took in his wrinkled clothes and the dirt under his nails. It certainly _looked_ like he'd spent all day and night in the woods. "I'm serious, Gin."

"Okay, I'll bite. Why?"

"It's because of you and this centaur thing!" He exclaims. "We're supposed to be partners for this Animagus stuff, but you're spending at least one night a week out there learning about the woods from freaking centaurs and you share what, maybe ten percent of it with the class? And I get that there are secrets you can't tell me, but we're supposed to be on the same page. We're supposed to know the same stuff. We're supposed to be able to trust each other with our lives, Ginny, because our first full transformation attempts are in a month and we actually _are_ going to have to trust each other with our lives for that but you and me aren't even in the same bloody library right now, let alone on the same page!" He took a deep breath. "Whoa. Didn't realize I'd been holding that in."

I looked at him, all tired and pleading and innocent. His tie depicted teddy bears waltzing.

_I know him, and I trust him_, I thought, repeating a sentiment from last night.

_Tom Riddle. Severus Snape. Mad-Eye, when he was actually Barty Crouch, Jr. _

"The woods were really dangerous last night," I started, injecting as much concern and earnestness as I could into my voice.

Hope flicked in Luke's eyes. "No kidding. I'm pretty sure I was hypothermic for a while."

"It's England in January, moron," I said. "But that's not what I meant. The centaurs were all bent out of shape about it—I think there was something in the forest last night. Something that's not normally there. It's why I'm so late getting back; they wouldn't let me leave until dawn."

Luke shrugged. "Guess I'm glad I didn't get eaten, then. Oh, by the way," he grinned, digging something out of his pocket, "Give your brothers my highest regards." He handed me a brightly colored wrapper, the "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes" logo emblazoned in shimmering ink. A Fever Fudge.

"You're insane."

"Only on days that end in –y."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping our drinks.

"Hey, Luke?"

"Yes, Miss Weasley?"

"What that Death Eater said about your mum on the train back for Christmas..."

"Nope. No. Nope. Stop." Luke set down his mug and folded his hands on the table. They really were rather filthy. "Look, Gin. There are two possible explanations for what that guy said. One, he was lying to get a rise out of me. Try to shake me. If that's the case, I really don't care. I made peace with my mother's death a long time ago. Two, he was telling the truth and my mother somehow survived that Auror attack. If that's the case, _I really don't care_. I'm emancipated. Me and my sisters, we've got nothing to do with her anymore. Or our father. As far as I'm concerned, Chelsea and Dawn are my only family in the world. If Arlene Bronte is still alive, kudos to her, but I don't give a damn what she thinks about me and I hope she dies a rather painful death, to be quite frank. Okay?"

We made eye contact, bright brown to deep brown. "Okay."

* * *

"You look awful," Meg proclaimed as I staggered into our room around 8AM.

"Bite me, Dantley," I retorted, flopping facedown on my bed. "I've had a ridiculous twelve hours.

"Such a lady," she taunted as she pulled on a sweater.

I rolled onto my side. "What're you doing today?"

She shrugged. "Nothing exciting. Homework. Pretending Divination is worth my time, mostly."

I yawned my agreement. "Hey, what happened to your posters?"

"What?"

"You know, all those Muggle guys. Jakey-poo and What's-His-Face. You and Bianca had a bunch of posters over that table."

Meg shrugged again. "Got bored, I guess. The guys didn't even move in the picture. Bo-ring."

"But you love those posters," I protested, turning onto my other side to follow her as she crossed the room.

She stopped at the door and heaved a sigh. "I _did_ love those posters. Last month. But I understand why you might not know that. Ever since we got back to school you've been all buddy-buddy with Luke and Neville and off playing in the woods with centaurs and showing your mini-me Bailey all the 'great stuff about being a Gryffindor!'. We're supposed to be best friends, Ginny, but I've barely seen you since we got off the train. Do you even care?"

I gaped at her, trying to come up with something to say, but my brain had officially quit working. Luckily, Meg sighed and gave me a small smile.

"Look, I'm sorry. I can tell that you're exhausted, and I shouldn't have just sprung this on you out of nowhere. Get some sleep, and maybe we can talk after dinner? Later, Ginny."

I waved her off and collapsed onto my back. I was asleep within minutes.

[A/N] Oof. There is a lot of information in this chapter and I've re-written parts of it six times.

Welcome to my lovely new readers (and especially reviewers)!


	22. The Liar In The Rookery

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Liar in The Rookery**

"We're dead," Luke said, peering around the corner again. "Absolutely dead."

"We missed curfew by five minutes, calm down," I said. "We'll just walk in and explain that we got turned around in the woods. It's fine."

We were crouched in the snow just outside the doors to Hogwarts' main entrance, watching several members of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad pace back and forth across the flagstones. We'd been out the forest marking trails and the like for our Transfiguration class, but had lost track of time and missed returning to the castle by curfew.

"It's not fine!" Luke hissed, his breath crystallizing in my face. "Ginny, I've got 96 demerits. Breaking curfew's a ten-demerit offense. They'll have to give me a bigger hourglass. I don't want a bigger hourglass. I like you being the only student in the school crazy enough to need a bigger hourglass."

I gaped at him. "Ninety. Six. It's _Monday_, Luke, how did you manage to get that many demerits in _two days_?"

"I said some rather rude things to Crabbe and Goyle in class this morning. I said forty-six rather rude things to Crabbe and Goyle this morning, actually."

I burst out laughing and Luke had to clap his hand over my mouth to keep the sound from alerting Umbridge's minions. He set me free one finger at a time once I had myself back under control.

"Okay, so what do you suggest we do?" I asked. "We can't exactly stay out here all night."

"I don't know," he whined. "Aren't there secret entrances to the castle all over the place?"

I snorted back another laugh. "Not as many as you'd think, plus Umbridge has got them all on lockdown. But," I added slowly, "I might have an idea. Come on."

I grabbed his hand and towed him around the outskirts of the castle until we were standing directly beneath the Gryffindor tower. From the ground, I could just barely make out the outline of Fawkes' rookery, stories and stories above our heads.

"What're we going to do, climb the tower and hope someone opens a window?" Luke grumbled.

"Shut up," I retorted, closing my eyes. I whistled a short melody that Fawkes had taught him into the night sky, then crossed my fingers.

"What are we waiting for?" Luke whispered into my ear after nothing happened for a few minutes. I clamped my hand over his mouth this time and whistled again.

With a rush of feathers and a small whirlwind of disturbed snow, Fawkes swooped out of the sky and landed gracefully on the top of Luke's head, singing the tune back to me. I felt a wide smile crack my face; I hadn't been sure that would work.

"Hi, Fawkes," I greeted, offering him a nut from my pocket that I'd absently picked in the woods. He crunched it enthusiastically, scattering bits of shell into Luke's hair. "Would you mind taking us up?" I pointed to the top of the tower to emphasize my meaning. Fawkes always seemed to understand the gist of what I was talking about, but I wasn't sure how many of the subtleties he picked up on and I didn't want to wind up spending the night on the roof.

Fawkes cooed his assent and hopped from Luke's head to the snow, wiggling his tail feathers at us enticingly. I gripped carefully but firmly near the base, then held out my other hand to Luke, who was staring at me with something between astonishment and concern.

"You're completely mad," he said. "He's a bird, he can't carry _one_ of us up there, let alone both at the same time."

"He's a phoenix!" I defended Fawkes' honor. "Besides, he carried me and three other people when I got into some trouble as a First Year."

Still looking dubious, Luke sighed and clasped my forearm. "You're still completely mad."

"Only on days that end in –y," I taunted, quoting him from our conversation in the kitchens nearly a month ago. "Hold on."

Fawkes drew his wings up and pushed down and off in a smooth, fluid motion and then we were in the air, soaring weightlessly straight into the sky. Luke let out a startled yelp and tightened his grip on my arm; I giggled.

In a matter of seconds, we were hovering over Fawkes' rookery, a proper miniature forest encased by stone on three sides, a transparent wall on the fourth, and open to the sky from above.

"You have to let go," I called down to Luke, who had that you're-insane look on his face again.

"Mental," he called back. "You're mental."

"You'll be fine! Just watch out for branches."

With a deep breath and a curse word that I'd never heard before—impressive, considering who my brothers were—Luke released my arm and fell the short distance to the stone floor of the rookery. I followed shortly, landing on a patch of soft moss. I stood up to wave thanks to Fawkes, who trilled our melody and flew off, then looked to Luke, who was rubbing a knee and looking around in astonishment.

"This is awesome," he said when he had his breath back. "The castle just _made_ this for him?"

"Twilla the house elf asked it to," I replied. I exited the rookery into Meg and I's room; Julia left for a weekend visit home at the end of January and never returned, only sending Meg and I a two-line letter to tell us that she was okay, but in hiding. No one is home except Arnold, who emits an excited squeak at the sight of me. "Sounded like the tower was going to fall apart when it happened, but it's pretty neat now."

A sudden bouncing sound echoed through the room and I turned to find Luke trapped on the inside of the rookery, considering the invisible barrier in front of him with an amused look on his face. "I guess they can't have just anyone walking in here, can they?"

"I forgot about that," I exclaimed honestly. "I have to invite you in. What's your middle name?"

"Seriously? Like I'm a vampire in some weird Muggle fiction book? Demetri."

"Lucas Demetri Callahan, I hereby give you permission to enter the room," I announced grandly, with a sweeping flourish of my arm.

"Why thank you, Ginevra Molly Weasley," Luke said just as grandly, taking a step forward. The rookery's boundary bounced him back again, however, and we both stared at the space where it existed, confused, until a look of realization crossed Luke's face.

"You have to use my full name to invite me in," he said slowly.

"I did!" I protested. "Weird Russian middle name and everything."

He offered me a sad little smile, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "My real name, Ginny."

His real name..._oh_. "Lucas Demetri Bronte," I said quietly. "You can come in."

He tested the water with a toe this time, and when that was allowed to enter the room, he stepped through. Neither of us said anything; what was there to say? Arnold, sensing our distress, rolled over to Luke and rubbed his fluff along Luke's shoe in what was, I suppose, a comforting manner.

"It's okay," Luke said, bending down to cup Arnold gently. He deposited the Pygmy Puff in my hands. "It's just a name. Goodnight, Ginny."

He walked out of the room, tension reading clearly across his shoulders. I sighed and dropped to my bed, settling Arnold on my stomach to investigate the inner workings of my bellybutton. I was asleep in minutes.

* * *

"I think we should reconsider Jenny Cortland for membership," Michael announced out of the blue. Every head in the D.A. turned to stare at him. It was a rainy Saturday afternoon at the end of that week, midway through February, and most of us had agreed to gather in the Room of Requirement before heading through to Hogsmeade. It was our first meeting of the term and we didn't have much to discuss or accomplish, but it felt good to get together. "What? I'm serious."

"She's psychotic, Michael," Padma pointed out. "I live in the same room as her, she's absolutely nuts."

"She's got fire!" He protested. "We need fire. When was the last time we did anything...well, the last time we did anything at all?"

I cleared my throat and glared at him. The last time "we" had done something—the botched attempt at stealing the Sword of Gryffindor—it had not ended well.

Michael rolled his eyes at me. "We can't just sit around in this room. What's the point of being the rebellion if we don't do any actual rebelling?"

"But..._Jenny_?" Demi and Natalie chorused. "We won't be able to do any rebelling if she and Ginny just knock each other out every time they're in the same room," Demi continued.

"That happened _once_!" I protested over the laughter. "And it was on a Quidditch pitch!"

Neville snorted back a chuckle. "I hate to be the one to say it, but I agree with Michael. We've gotten kind of stagnant. The punishments are harsh, but that doesn't mean we should stop fighting." People around the circle started to nod in tentative agreement with Neville's plan.

"Nev, can I talk to you for a second?" I said in his ear. He nodded and we left the group discussing the finer points of Jenny's sanity, finding a secluded corner intended for naps, based on the hammocks. "Are you crazy? Getting involved with Jenny is like playing Russian Roulette. Except every chamber is loaded."

Neville gave me one of those what-the-heck-are-you-on-about looks. "What?"

"Sorry, one of my dad's Muggle sayings. The point is that Jenny's a wild card, one that we can't afford to be playing with. Since when are you all gung-ho risk-taker, anyway?"

Any hint of lightness dropped off Neville's face. "Since Death Eaters dragged the girl that I might be in love with off the school train while I was two cars over and didn't even _know_ about it until we got to King's Cross Station."

This, of course, hit me like a bolt of lightning. I did a pretty good job of blocking out the entire Luna issue during the day, but at night my thoughts tended to spiral out of control and I got caught in cycles of _Where's Luna? Is she still alive? Are they hurting her? What do they want with her? Will she survive? Is she scared?_ And now here was Neville, standing in front of me, confessing his love for her. I don't know if I truly understood how out of control the world was until that very moment.

"Revenge isn't going to get us anywhere, Nev," I said, trying to channel McGonagall. "Except maybe back in the dungeons."

"I'm done being afraid, Ginny," he said, calmly but forcefully. "I'm done hiding."

He pulled away from me and rejoined the group, calling for a vote. I followed a minute later after composing myself. Things had been actually going sort of _well _lately. Sure, Carrow and Umbridge were still making my life hell, but with Daphne gone and me and Luke _finally _in a good place, it was starting to seem like maybe, just maybe, I'd make it through the year with my sanity intact. There was nothing wrong with being a little stagnant when the other option was facing down a pack of enraged grizzly bears with nothing but your fists. _How_ had _I_—Ginny Weasley, the girl liable to involuntarily blow things up when she got angry—become the sole voice of reason?

The group voted unanimously to bring Jenny in. I abstained.

We ended the meeting and people began to file out in their pre-assigned groups of twos and threes. Bailey and Dennis Creevy were holding hands as they exited.

"Oh, that has got to be the cutest thing I've ever seen," Parvati said in my ear, looking at their intertwined fingers. "They'll have extremely short and dorky babies. Ready?"

I looked over to Ariana's portrait; she gave me a small wave, then turned and walked back out of sight. Michael's birthday was the next day, and we were planning on staying out past curfew to celebrate, so we were taking the tunnel to Hog's Head so no one would see us leaving the castle and get suspicious. I checked to make sure my shrunken Cleansweep and Neville's old Tinderblast were safely wrapped in a scarf in my bag—we couldn't be sure the Room of Requirement wouldn't be in use when we left Hogsmeade, so we each miniaturized our brooms and would come back through Fawkes' rookery, which everyone else extremely excited about—and linked arms with her; we stepped through the frame together. Michael and Neville came through behind us, chatting in such a comfortably bromantic fashion that you'd never guess that the first time they'd agreed on anything had been five minutes ago.

"So, where's Meg been?" Parvati asked as we hit the first curve.

"She's waiting for us at the Flourish & Blotts outpost," I said. "Looking for a new quill or something with Bianca."

Parvati laughed. "I meant, where's she been for the past two months? You two used to be together almost every second of every day, and now I barely see you even speaking. And why wasn't she at the meeting?"

"I'm not sure about that last one," I admitted. "I asked if she was coming and first she thought I was asking about Hogsmeade and then she acted like she didn't know what else I could have been talking about. But there were other people around, so maybe she was being vague on purpose? Maybe she lost her D.A. Galleon, I should ask about that. As for the rest of it..."

I trailed off, hoping Parvati would get the hint. Meg and I had never had that talk we'd planned on after she exploded at me in our room a month ago; I'd started reconciling with the fact that we might just be growing apart. She'd been right about me being too busy to keep many friends, though; between my classes, increasingly long demerit punishments, recently re-started Quidditch practices, my study/practice sessions with Luke and my Fridays in Shanalore (the Friday before this Hogsmeade visit had been my first free Friday in months; the centaurs once again claimed that the forest was too dangerous for me to enter. I still couldn't Grow anything, much to Aloria's dismay, but she insisted that we try every week.), I was stretched pretty thinly.

We emerged into Aberforth's apartment, saving me from further analysis of my deteriorating friendship. The four of us snuck down the stairs and let ourselves out through a hidden side door, walking quickly with our ears hunched up around our shoulders. The weather seemed to be trying to make up for a mild December and January by sinking us into a February that rivaled most Ice Ages.

We found Meg and Bianca in Flourish & Blotts, debating between a set of stationary that showered the recipient with live pink daisies and another that turned into chocolate once it had been read. They joined our group happily, but now that I'd been talking about it with Parvati, it was difficult not to notice how estranged Meg and I had become. There was no hostility between us, but no closeness. It was weird and uncomfortable and became even more so when Bianca said goodbye to head back up to the castle with her other friends.

The crowd of Hogwarts students had thinned out considerably by the time we were heading back to The Hog's Head for drinks and food; curfew was rapidly approaching. I was holding the door open for my friends when a familiar figure, wrapped in a thick coat and with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, walked by.

"Luke!" I exclaimed happily. "I didn't think you were getting back until tomorrow!"

Luke had missed the previous three days of lessons to spend time with his two younger sisters, who were on holiday from school. They hadn't seen each other over the Christmas break because the girls' school ran on a weird trimester schedule that never matched up with anyone else's.

"Surprise!" He said wearily, holding up his free hand and waggling his fingers. "Dawn and Chelsea wanted to get back in time for their friend's birthday party, so I hopped on an earlier flight and here I am, jet-lag and all. The cabbie dropped me off here instead of at the castle, mumbling something about demons. It was very odd."

My dad, Harry, Hermione, and Luke had all explained the concept of airplanes and air travel to me several times, but the whole thing still baffled me. You sat in the belly of a giant metal bird, held in the air by nothing but air—no magic, even, which was the only reason broomsticks made any sense—chucking yourself around at inhuman speeds. It sounded awful.

"Well, want to attend a birthday party of your own? Michael turns 18 tomorrow."

Luke cocked his head at me. "Because Michael and I are the very best of friends?"

I rolled my eyes. "You guys have been fine for months, ever since he stopped telling me to be careful around you and you stopped pushing his buttons about not being completely over me."

"Still, if it's the dude's birthday party?" He trailed off. "Wait, isn't curfew in, like, twenty minutes?"

I grinned. "We've got a way around that particular rule."

I could see the gears turning in Luke's head. "I do enjoy breaking rules. And since you obviously want me there so badly..."

"I do!" I said quickly, ignoring the half-innuendo. "I really do. Meg's here and I could use all the buffer I can get."

"Well, in _that_ case," Luke said, stopping in front of me to stomp snow off his boots and kiss me on the cheek, "Anything to be of service, sweetheart."

He walked past me into the pub. I willed the shiver that had latched onto my spine when he whispered that last bit into my ear to go away. Luke and I never really discussed our relationship and even though I was 100% not interested in him romantically—not at all—not even a little—except—no, not at all—I was still a human teenage girl and therefore not immune to tall, good-looking, smart, funny boys who were somehow always tan and smelled like the forest.

"Ginny!" Michael yowled from inside the pub, sounding like he'd already talked Abe into letting him celebrate his birthday a day early. "Get in here!"

I started to turn in, but a dark shape at the edge of the woods caught my eye. A centaur? Something else? The dangerous creature I'd been warned about? I blinked and the shape was gone—or maybe it'd never been there to begin with. I shook the light dusting of snow from my hair and went inside. Bloody centaurs were making me paranoid.

* * *

I lowered us carefully, maneuvering Parvati's broom into the forested rookery. Parvati and I, as the two smallest members of the group, had doubled up on her Nimbus 1700 so Luke could ride my Cleansweep back to the castle.

I dismounted smoothly. "Middle name?"

"Prenuja. Why?"

"Parvati Prenuja Patil? Seriously?"

"My parents have limited imaginations," Parvati explained. Michael and Neville dropped in next to us. I stepped quickly out into the main room—still uncomfortably small with just two beds, even after the few weeks to adjust—and invited the three of them through; Luke followed a second later, looking relieved, and I sent up a quick prayer of thanks that I'd already invited him in so no one else had to hear his true last name. I heard Meg's feet touch down on the stone floor and let out a small sigh of relief; we hadn't been caught. Six of us, and we hadn't been caught.

A strangely familiar bouncing noise interrupted my train of thought. I turned to see Meg still standing inside Fawkes' rookery, looking curiously out at me.

"Meg?"

She shrugged. "I can't get in."

"What do you mean? I gave you permission last term."

She shrugged again. "Maybe it forgot? Or expired or something? Will you just let me in again? It's cold out here."

Alarm bells were dimly going off in some clouded corner of my brain. "Yeah, of course—Margaret Elizabeth Dantley, you can come in."

She smiled gratefully and made to push through the barrier, but the bouncing noise reverberated through the room again. My alarm bells got louder and I took a few steps back. I hadn't actually seen her enter or exit the rookery in quite some time. There was only one reason the rookery's barrier wouldn't let her through. "You're not Meg."

Meg gaped at me. Parvati squeezed my forearm. "What are you talking about, Ginny?"

"She's _not_," I said. "The castle would remember her. Or at least recognize her if I gave her permission again."

"Don't be ridiculous," Meg sighed, rolling her eyes. "Of course I'm me. There's just something wrong with the barrier thing. Get your little house elf friend or someone to fix it."

"My 'little house elf friend's' name is Twilla, and she'll just say that the castle doesn't make mistakes," I said carefully. "Who are you?"

"I'm Meg," she said, exasperation touching her voice. "Your best friend? Hello? Standing right here."

The three boys stood in a row, looking back and forth between the two of us. My brain was spinning, alarms still demanding attention.

"When's your birthday?" I shot.

She positively glared at me. "You can't seriously be asking me security questions right now."

"When's your birthday?" I repeated, injecting a little force into my voice.

"December seventh," she spat. "Yours is August eleventh, in case you were wondering."

_Okay. Of course she knows that. She's Meg. But if she's not...anyone impersonating her would be sure to learn her birthday. And mine. I need a harder question_. _Something only the real Meg would know. _

"What did I take from Snape's office at the beginning of the year?"

She gestured to the rookery behind her. "Fawkes? Duh?"

My heart skipped a beat. "What else?"

She looked at me blankly. "What, you mean the Sword of Gryffindor? That doesn't really count, Ginny, you got caught."

I shake my head and back a few steps away. Tears are starting to burn in the backs of my eyes. My brain is split into three warring factions: one is a few minutes behind, still trying to convince me that _of course_ this is Meg and this is all some big misunderstanding; one in the moment willing her to say "Sorting Hat" so strongly that I'm amazed the words aren't leaping out of my mouth; and one a few minutes in the future, already panicking about what this imposter might know if, indeed, she isn't Meg. I don't watch what I say around Meg, I've never needed to—what could she have learned about the D.A.? My family? Harry, Ron, Hermione? And—and this thought very nearly brings me to my knees—if this isn't Meg, _where is she_? "No. What else? Think, Meg, please, if you're Meg, please, please, please, think. What did I take from Snape's office at the beginning of the year?"

She stares at me again, obviously thinking hard. "I don't...it's right on the tip of my tongue, but I can't remember."

My lungs seem to be seizing up, a cold pressure building in my chest right next to the tiny flame of Rhea that is steadily intensifying. I open my mouth again to say something—what, I don't know—but Neville cuts me off. He is somehow standing right next to me, and his words seem sluggish to my over-firing brain.

"How's your sister, Meg?" He asks quietly.

Meg's face clears. "She ran off with that Muggle husband of hers."

Neville is nodding slowly. "Yes. But you still talk to her, right?"

Meg snorts. "Of course not. They hate our family now and my parents renounced them."

Neville looks to me for confirmation, his eyes holding a shred of hope that maybe, maybe, maybe we're wrong and this is Meg and this can all be over right now if I just nod, but I'm too busy choking on the fire in my chest and the words in my throat and _that was the wrong answer—_

Meg looks at me expectantly, reaching up to smooth her hair in a gesture that is at once bizarre and familiar—bizarre because Meg's chin-length brown hair never requires smoothing, familiar because the way she does it—twirling a lock around her finger, tucking it back—is horribly, horribly similar to the way a certain curly-haired blonde played with her hair as she stood over me, panting and bleeding on the floor of the dungeon—

"Daphne," I say. The word comes out strangled and hoarse. "Daphne. You're not Meg. You're Daphne."

The girl in the rookery holds my gaze as the four other people in the room explode with questions and disbelief. I ignore them and focus on the knowing smile spreading across the girl's face, follow her gaze down to the broom still in her hand, see her shift her weight in preparation to mount and take off—

"NO!" I shriek at the top of my lungs, and the Rhea-fire in my heart bursts through the dams to flood my body, blinding me temporarily, but my ears must still be working because I hear Parvati scream as something external to my body undergoes a similar eruption . A massive amount of energy surges out of me; Neville's arm loops around my waist just in time to keep me from hitting the floor face-first. Luke catches me under my other shoulder and helps me sit without injuring myself. By the time the dust settles, it's clear to me—if no one else—what just happened.

I Grew. Without an incantation, without being in the Grove, without Aloria's coaching, I Grew.

Every plant in Fawkes' rookery had had a simultaneous growth spurt, weaving together to form an impenetrable ceiling of vines and branches and leaves. Daphne—because it is Daphne, I now know for certain—looks at up them in disbelief; everyone else is staring at me.

"You are just full of surprises," Luke says in my ear.

"Someone should take a picture so I can show Aloria," I giggle, feeling remarkably light-headed. "She'll be so proud!"

Everything promptly goes black.

[A/N] Yeah, yeah, I switched to present tense for a while there. Writing it in past tense just wasn't working. Yes, it's a permanent change; the rest of the story will take place in present tense. Sue me. I should also do something about having chapters be a more consistent length, but oh well.

All broom models have been researched and verified by Kennilworthy Wisp's _Quidditch Through The Ages. _

Hi to new readers/reviewers :] I don't know where you're all coming from, but you're awesome and I love you.


	23. The Greatest Trick The Devil Ever Pulled

**Chapter Twenty-Three: The Greatest Trick The Devil Ever Pulled**

By the time I regain consciousness, Daphne's Polyjuice Potion has worn off and she's sitting in the rookery in Meg's too-tall robes, refusing to answer any of the boys' questions. Parvati has gone to fetch Professor McGonagall. When they arrive, a debate ensues about what to do with Daphne—Michael and Luke are all for turning her over to the Order—but we eventually determine that Daphne would have already reported everything she'd learned and the Order doesn't exactly have people to spare as babysitters, so Snape and Slughorn are called for.

"Miss Greengrass," Snape says silkily as he enters the room and takes in the situation with such a lack of surprise that I have to sit on my hand to keep from smacking him, "How lovely to see you again. Do come in."

Daphne gives him a simpering smile and makes to move through the boundary, but is met with the same bouncing forcefield as before. "I think Weasley has to be the one to invite me in, sir."

"Hell no," I say from my spot on the bed, leaning against Luke's side for support in case I pass out again.

Snape sighs. Like _I'm_ the one being unreasonable. "Miss Weasley, invite Miss Greengrass into your room."

I fix him with the dirtiest, strongest, more violent glare I can muster and speak slowly and clearly. "There is absolutely no fucking way I am going to do that."

"Detention," he says. "One for language, one for disobedience."

I stand up, pushing against Luke's shoulder for leverage. "You can give me detention for every bloody day for the rest of my life. That bitch is _not_ getting in my room."

He stares at me for a few more seconds, then turns and speaks quietly to Slughorn, who waddles quickly from the room. A few minutes later, there are shouts and noises from outside the rookery, then jets of red light—they're cutting through my Growing to get Daphne out.

I'm strangely satisfied when it takes them more than ten minutes to undo what I did in less than ten seconds.

* * *

"I can't believe I didn't know," I say for the millionth time. It's an hour later and I'm flat on my back at the foot of Neville's bed; Neville and Luke are sitting against the headboard. Michael was ordered back to Ravenclaw after Daphne's release and Parvati is tending to the younger Gryffindors, who are apparently quite worked up—between my thunderous Growing and the subsequent arrival of Snape and Slughorn, there are a lot of questions.

"It's not your fault," Neville and Luke chorus.

"There was no way to know," Neville continues.

"There were so many signs!" I protest, throwing my hands in the air. "That comment she made about Daphne not being a Death Eater before the Second Sorting, taking down the Muggle posters, that comment about Divination not being worth her time—I'm a moron. A complete and utterly useless moron."

"Daphne may be a twit, but she knew what she was doing. You went to school together for six years and she'd been watching every move you and Meg made," Luke says.

"She's my best friend. I mean, she...was? I don't even know if actual Meg is still alive. She was my _best friend_."

"Meg is fine," Neville interjects. "I'm sure she's fine."

"You can't be sure of that!" I explode, launching myself up off the bed. "No one even knew she was _missing _until two hours ago! She's been missing—captured by Death Eaters—since the beginning of term and no one even knew! She could be anywhere by now or buried somewhere or-!" I throw myself back on the bed, facedown this time, and scream my frustrations and fear into the comforter. I roll over, leaving my arm awkwardly pinned under my back, and speak calmly for the first time in what feels like days. "I thought she was gone. Daphne, I mean. I thought she was gone and that I wouldn't have to deal with her and Merlin, it was so nice to think about."

"The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world that he didn't exist," Luke says.

"What?"

"It's a quote from a Muggle film that was big in the States a few years back. Paraphrase of Charles Baudelaire, I believe."

I wiggle until I free my arm, a worrying thought nagging at my mind. "What if there are more of them? People pretending to be our friends, I mean? What if they've infiltrated the D.A.?"

"What are we going to do, drop every person in the D.A. into your room through Fawkes' rookery and have you invite them in?" Neville laughs after casting a sideways glance at Luke. Neville, Michael, and a couple other older members of the D.A. have long since gotten used to Luke knowing about the group, but that doesn't mean they're comfortable discussing it around him.

I shrug. "It's not a bad idea."

"None of the other Slytherins are missing," Luke points out. "And it's not likely that they'd try it with more than one person; they'd have to know that we'd be suspicious of everyone if one of them got caught."

"He's right, Ginny," Neville agrees gently. "They might be evil, but they're not stupid."

I struggle to find another argument, but nothing comes to mind. I finally fold my arms over my face and focus on breathing and subduing the Rhea-flame that's still blazing inside me. I really, really need to talk to Aloria.

"If Daphne's back in lessons on Monday," I begin, but the second half of that sentence doesn't materialize so I start over. "I don't know if I'll be able to face her. Not knowing how long she tricked me. How long we lived in the same room."

"You have to face her," says a small voice from the doorway. The three of us look up at Bailey, standing there in duck-printed pajamas. She walks over to the bed and plops herself across my stomach, sending all the air in my body wooshing out into the room.

"And why's that?" I ask, tickling her until she's laughing enough that I can shove her off.

"You're the leader," she says simply. None of us say anything for a few minutes, then:

"She's right," Neville says.

"Oh, come off it," I argue. "We're both leaders of the D.A., Nev, you and me and Michael, too, and even Parvati sometimes."

"I'm not talking about just the D.A.," Neville says. "I'm talking about the whole thing, this whole..._rebellion_ that we've been staging. The D.A.'s just a part of it. It's you refusing to do what Carrow tells you to, getting the shit kicked out of you as punishment, and doing it all again the next week."

"Joining a tribe of centaurs even though it's against at least six of Umbridge's Educational Decrees," Luke adds.

"Having those teas with McGongall that you think no one notices," Neville says.

"Befriending a First Year Slytherin even when they're trying to keep us apart," Bailey pipes in.

"Hell, being here at all when everyone knows that your brother is Harry Potter's best friend," Luke says.

"Keeping Dumbledore's phoenix as a pet," Neville says.

"Being Harry's girl," Luke says quietly.

"Being a leader of the D.A. is just a part of it," Neville repeats. "You're the face of the rebellion, Gin. You're the glue that's holding the school together. And you have to keep standing up to them, because without you..."

"Without you, it all falls apart," Luke finishes.

"And then everything just...exploded," I finish lamely.

* * *

Aloria and Firenze squint at me.

"Exploded?" Firenze repeats. "Is that sarcasm?"

"Not even slightly," I say. "It was crazy. Plants everywhere, all of them, trees and bushes and vines and flowers. And then I got really tired and dizzy and I passed out."

"Growing takes energy," Aloria says, wringing her hands. "I neglected to tell you about it because I thought you'd be with me for your first successful attempt and I'd be able to help you through it and it would be something small. Oh, Ginny, I'm so terribly sorry."

"It's okay," I reply, a bit taken aback by the gravity of her apology. "No harm done. It weirded my friends out, but no harm done."

Aloria brightened considerably. "Let's try again, then, shall we?"

"What?"

"Growing, Ginny! You've proved that you're capable, so now we need to work on your control. You have the seed?"

I nod, dumbfounded that she wants me to try again so soon (it's been less than a week since I almost brought Gryffindor tower tumbling to the ground) and a little scared, tapping at the locket around my neck. "Always."

I go through the motions of removing the seed and incantation, burying the seed, and settling myself to the ground. I feel the spark of Rhea dancing around in my chest and will myself to be open to it, to understand the symbols, to feel something, _anything_ different than I've felt the last dozen times I've tried this. As always, time stops having meaning after the first few minutes.

For the first time, Aloria stops me instead of me giving up. She gestures at the sky, talking rapidly, and although I'm still too far inside my head to understand what she's saying, I gather that it's getting late and I need to get back to the castle. I secure my seed and spell inside the locket and tuck it safely under my shirt, disappointed and tired.

"I thought I'd be able to do it now," I say. "Now that I've already done it once, I mean."

"Once, in a state of heightened emotions, you were able to tap into Rhea's raw power and channel it in a way that you deemed useful," Aloria corrects gently. "That's not quite the same as the refined control needed to Grow, Ginny."

"I know," I sigh. "It's just frustrating."

She smiles and bids Firenze and I farewell, promising that we'll try Growing yet again the next time I'm in the woods.

I watch Firenze watch Aloria trot away, deciding to finally broach a topic that's been bugging me. "What's going on there?"

He looks down at me. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on, you're eight billion times smarter than me, Firenze, don't play dumb. You and Aloria."

"We are...friends," he says, appearing disgruntled, which I take as a triumph seeing as it's the most emotion I've ever gotten out of him.

"Friends! The way you look at her, like...like," I cast around in my vocabulary for a comparison that will make sense to my centaur conversation partner. "Like she's Cassiopeia on November first."

Firenze studies me. "Implying that she burns brighter than any other?"

"Exactly.

He stares after her wistfully. "Perhaps it is so. Perhaps she is my Cassiopeia. But it is not to be."

"Oh? Did destiny tell you that?" I try to keep the tone of my voice friendly—or at least civil—or at least not openly mocking—but it's been an impossibly trying week with Meg/Daphne fiasco, plus Bellatrix Lestrange was seen flipping her disgustingly filthy black hair (which I was pretty sure housed a family of woodmice) around the castle, which put Neville in an understandably foul mood.

"Hardly," Firenze replies, evidently not noticing my tone. "Magorian."

"What?"

"Magorian has decreed that his daughter be mated to Bane," Firenze explains, his wistfulness turning to misery.

"Your evil older brother. Of course."

"Bane isn't evil, Ginevra.

"Yeah, and neither's You-Know-Who."

"Sarcasm?"

"Of the highest order, my friend."

Firenze looks at me with wide eyes. "Are we friends, Ginevra?"

It's my turn to study him. "Of course we are, Firenze. What did you think?"

Firenze doesn't directly respond, but instead says, "I have a human friend" very slowly, like he's trying out the way that tastes rolling across his tongue. He abruptly lets out a burst of laughter. "I may be the very first centaur in my family to ever say those words."

The look of glee on his face is more than I can handle, and I shake with helpless laughter as I pull on my cloak. February's icy chill has loosened its grip considerably in the past few days, but melting snow is still snow and I don't fancy the thought of walking the hour or so back to the castle in a wet, chilly sweater. I pause at the edge of the clearing.

"Oh, by the way, what I was actually sent out here to tell you—tomorrow's my Transfiguration class's first attempts to complete the Animagus transition," I say. "Students will be out in pairs for most of the day."

Firenze's face drops the tentative smile he'd set there as if it never existed in the first place and he's back to his expressionless, inflectionless self. "I ask that you again impress upon Minerva McGonagall the danger that these woods can hold."

"I'll tell her," I promise, waving over my shoulder as I begin to thread my way through the trees. I won't actually tell her, of course; after the first four times Firenze had me carry that message, McGonagall politely informed me that she'd worked next to and inside the Forbidden forest for forty-eight years, thank you very much, and knew how to take care of herself and her charges and if-Firenze-had-such-a-problem-with-it-he-could-come-up-to-the-castle-and-bring-it-up-with-her-himself.

I meander through the woods slowly, taking side paths and roundabout ways, trailing my fingers over bark and branch and leaf, putting off returning to the castle despite it being the dead of night. I don't want to walk through the dark, empty halls patrolled by carnivorous bunnies; I don't want to go into the Gryffindor common room, where people stare at me and whisper about what Daphne did; and I most definitely do not want to walk into my empty room and be reminded of the fact that five of the people I care most about in the world are hopelessly, hopelessly missing.

* * *

That night—like every night of the previous week—my dreams come as nightmares of names and faces.

_Meg Luna Meg Luna Meg Luna Dean Luna Ron Julia Ron Ron Meg Harry Hermione Luna Dean Meg Luna Hermione Harry Ron Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry..._

I wake up screaming in a room that only has one bed. I am drenched in a cold sweat, and bleeding from the base of my thumbnail—I must have punched the headboard again.

It's just me. I'm the only one left.

I'm alone.


	24. Abomination

**Chapter Twenty-Four: Abomination**

"Okay," Luke says. "Are you ready?"

"Not even slightly," I respond.

We're standing on the edge of the Forbidden Forest (_Shanalore_, I correct myself. Aloria says that I've got to start thinking more like a centaur if I ever want my Growing to work). We've just seen Colin, Brighton, and Edward tumble out of the woods—Brighton and Edward glowing over having successfully transformed into a porcupine and a howler monkey, respectively, and Colin dejected but optimistic as always—and now it's our turn to put six months of obsessive research, studying, and training into practice.

"Come off it," Luke challenges. "You've got the most corporeal Patronus of anyone in the class. This'll be easy for you. My Patronus won't stop doing that cruddy shifty-blurry thing; if either of us should be worried, it's me."

"You've done all the same reading I have, you know that there's very little validity to that theory," I argue.

"Yeah? Parvati's got the next most solid Patronus and Nev says she turned into that songbird like she'd been doing it her whole life, while Nev's got the same shifty-ass Patronus issue as me and he stayed on two legs the entire time."

"Wouldn't be a problem if he was aiming for kangaroo," I point out.

"But he's not, is he? He's going to be that giant wildcat thing. Four legs. Like me and my giant dog thing. Now stop stalling. We're doing this."

By unspoken agreement, we grip hands and face the trees. I know McGonagall's watching from the castle, and there's a good chance that the other students in our class are watching, too, but I try to block them out and focus on nothing but me and my horse Patronus. What she looks like—not too tall, coat a golden brown, mane and tail chestnut—her markings—diamond of white between the eyes, another between the forelegs—how she moves, how looking at her imbues me with a sort of strength and power.

Much to my annoyance, I feel that little flame of Rhea in my heart start to flare up again. _How am I supposed to focus with that going on_? The Animagus transformation is a complicated form of non-verbal wandless magic that revolves around focus and willpower. I'm not trying to Grow anything, so why is Rhea pushing at me? I've long since accepted that the centaurs' invisible river of energy exists. Why now?

And then Luke's hand is gone from mine, ripped out of my grasp, and standing in his place is a giant—and I mean_ giant_, the thing's head is almost level with my shoulder—dog that is rippling through breeds and species faster than I can process. It—he—is also whining and writhing around; it doesn't seem like the changing is enjoyable.

_Okay. Okay. McGonagall told us what to do if this happened. _I summon up my courage and walk directly in front of dog-Luke, grabbing him by the surprisingly silky ears and pulling with all my strength until I'm looking directly into his familiar, deep brown eyes.

"Luke," I say calmly. "Focus. Focus on how you see yourself. Decide what you're going to be and aim for that. Focus."

I continue to stare into his eyes and chant soothing words at him until his changing slows down enough that I can actually see each form he's going through: a standard (though enormous) Golden Retriever, a solid black dog that reminds me painfully of Sirius, something with more curls and fluff than substance that only lasts for the blink of an eye. As the flickering slows even more, I can see that he's trending toward something more rugged and less pet-like. He gives one final shudder that shakes him into a new form, and I know that this one is him. This one is Luke, beyond a doubt.

I don't have the name of a breed that he fits, but he's some sort of cross between a Husky and a chocolate Labrador, with a hint of something more predatory—coyote, maybe, or wolf—thrown in. He's not the kind of dog you would keep in the suburbs, but maybe if you lived on a farm or in the mountains or were Hagrid, Luke would be your kind of dog.

Luke gives a happy bark and starts running around, getting the feel for his new body. He's very bumbling and ridiculous at first as he learns to manage two additional legs, but he gets the hang of it soon enough. He discovers his tail, which involves a lot of spinning on his part and a lot of laughing on mine. He finally stop after running into a tree and, in one fluid motion, morphs back into human-Luke, face flushed with success and excitement. He rushes at me and spins me around in a hug, babbling uncontrollably.

"Oh, man," he says. "Oh, man, that was incredible—just—amazing, and the—my tail!—did you see when—unbelievable—the control is—oh, Merlin—I mean, I'm still _me _when it happens—wow."

He sets me back on my feet and whirls off on his own, still laughing, absolutely over the moon, and it's beyond adorable and I can't help thinking how very much like a puppy he really is.

He finally gets a handle on his emotions and comes back to face me. "Aren't you going to try?"

I consider his question, but I already know the answer. "No."

His eyes bug out a little. "Uh, why?"

I pull the locket out of my shirt and swing it around its chain, thinking. "It doesn't feel right. I don't know what it is—maybe I'm too distracted. I can see my horse, and I can sort of feel that she's there, but it's like we're not really connected, you know?" In my head, I'm thinking about how much it's like my inability to make anything Grow on purpose, but I'm not supposed to talk to anyone outside the Dwelling about that.

He looks at me and I can tell that he can't wait to go bursting out of his skin again.

"No, I don't suppose you do," I sigh. "Go on, then. I'll find a stick to throw for you or something."

Dog-Luke and I pass a surreal few hours on the outskirts of the forest, him gamboling about and learning how his nose works, me throwing snowballs for him to catch and resting by a small fire I've built. Hagrid comes out to see how we're doing around dinner time and brings us a plate of rock cakes, which I politely accept and then smash to bits with a real rock and scatter around for the birds. I actively keep my brain from leaving this little space of setting-sun drenched trees and melting snowdrifts. Sure, up at the castle, there's Carrow, Snape, Umbridge, Daphne, and Bellatrix; out beyond these woods, every single person that I know and care about is in very real danger. But for now, for these few hours, I am content to let my constantly panicking mind shut down and just learn to breathe again.

* * *

Full night has almost fallen, and I'm trying to persuade dog-Luke to shift back to his human form to go up to the castle when a quiet _snick_ in the trees off to the side makes both our heads snap in that direction. Luke pads over to stand in front of me and hunches down, growling low in his chest.

There's a second _snick_, a rustle of branches, and Bane steps out of the trees, all huge shoulders and barely contained homicidal anger. There's an elaborately carved staff strapped across his back that I haven't seen before, but then, I've never had the misfortune to run into a Defender on patrol of the Dwelling's territory. Luke's growl sinks an octave or two and I know I have to do something before one of them ends up with a ripped-out throat.

"My thanks to you, Defender, for your protection and sacrifice," I say quickly. "My Growings and I are grateful and indebted to you and yours." It's the proper—though formal—way for a Grower to greet a Defender of the same Dwelling.

For a second, it looks like Bane is going to ignore me and lunge for Luke's throat anyway, but even he is bound by the protocols of centaur custom. "And my thanks to you for the provision and well-being of that which I Defend," he says through gritted teeth. "I heard that Aloria conducted your Calling. I had hoped that such news might be false."

"Well, it's not," I say, wishing not for the first time that I had the centaurs' gift of eloquence. "I have been Called to the Shanalore Dwelling as a Grower."

Bane glares at me with such hostility that I have to stop myself from taking a step backwards. He shifts his gaze to Luke and sneers. "And what of this abomination?"

"A friend of mine," I say carefully. I tug on Luke's tail until he turns around and, through a series of rough shoves and eye contact, managed to get him behind me so that I'm standing protectively between him and Bane. I'm aware of how ridiculous this must look—me standing between an armed centaur easily three times my size and a huge, wolfy dog—but this is in no way Luke's fight and me forcing Bane to stick to the rules of civil conversation is our best chance of making it out of this with all of our limbs intact. "Just a dog."

Bane laughs, a terrifying sound that I fervently hope I never hear again. "Do not mistake me for a fool just because I am not one of your precious Keepers or Speakers, Grower. That is no dog. You have aligned yourself most unwisely."

I fight the bizarre urge to stick my tongue out. "I apologize if we have interfered with your patrol, Defender. By your leave, we will be on our way."

Bane's eyes are searing into mine; Luke's barely controlled growl is tickling my ear.

"Very well," Bane says slowly. "Be gone from these woods and take your abomination with you." He crashes away through the trees, leaving me feeling strangely unfinished until I realize that we didn't exchange the "grass-setting sun" farewell. The older centaur is always supposed to initiate that custom, and Bane didn't say it. Sometimes Aloria or Firenze would leave it out when saying goodbye to me, but that was just because we were friends and the well-wishing was implied, but with Bane?

A small shudder tears through my spine and then Luke is at my side, human again.

"Well," he says. "I can see why life with the centaurs is more complicated and dangerous that you thought."

I let out a breath. "Bane's not my biggest fan. Or yours, apparently, abomination."

Luke chuckles. "Just because I sometimes turn into a dog. That's racist. Or species-ist, maybe. So you really are one of them now, huh?"

I slung my bag over my head. "In every way except actually having four legs, according to Aloria. I can speak to the Elders or at Gatherings, I can access the Dwelling's records. I could even move to the Dwelling permanently."

We start the slow walk back up to the castle.

"Do you think that's something you would ever do?" He asks. "Move to the Dwelling, I mean."

"It's highly unlikely. There'd be so much that I'd have to sacrifice. My friends, my family, being a part of the wizarding world." I pause and look at him out of the corner of my eye. "Why, would you? If you could?"

"In a heartbeat," Luke says quickly. "As long as I could bring Chelsea and Dawn with me, or at least make sure that they'd be provided for without me."

"Think of everything you'd be leaving behind, though," I argue.

"What exactly would I be leaving behind? A school that doesn't want me, classmates that I've known for six months, and a whole world of people who'd be more than happy to set me on fire if they learned who my parents were?" He laughs softly. "Your centaur pal was right. I am an abomination."

The self-loathing in his voice shocks me. "Who your parents were or are doesn't define you, Luke. You told me yourself, they're not your family anymore."

He snorts. "Yeah, and how long did it take for you to trust me, seeing me and working with me every day? I don't have that luxury with the rest of the world. It's nice for me to talk about being my own person, and I'd die to prove it, but there are an awful lot of people out there who will never see me as anything other than a Death Eater's son."

I shrug. "Then they're not really seeing _you_. So tell them to piss off and live your life. Running away to live in the woods wouldn't prove that you're your own person, it'd just prove that you're a coward."

"There are worse things to be," he says quietly.

"Oh?"

"Dead, for one. I'm rather be a coward than be dead."

I am suddenly slammed with anger and irritation and I can't help the sarcastic, nasty laugh that bursts out of my mouth, and I can't stop the words that follow it. "No wonder the Sorting Hat kicked you out."

Luke stops dead in his tracks; we're about halfway across the courtyard leading to the main doors. "Just because I'm not interested in being one of your little kamikaze fighters—not everything is about the D.A., you know."

I whirl on a heel and stalk toward the doors. He catches my forearm when I'm halfway there and swings me around to face him; a charge shoots through my body from the Rhea-spark and he is forced to let go.

"What the hell, Gin?" he exclaims angrily, rubbing the point of contact on his palm. "What's your problem?"

"You, Luke," I retort, coming at him so quickly that he backs into a tree. "_You_ are my problem. Do you actually _care_ about _anything_?"

He gapes at me and stammers for words. "I don't know, Ginny, it's just...it's dangerous. It's not really...it's not my fight. I'm not really involved. And I don't want to _be _involved, so stop trying to involve me."

"'It's too dangerous, it's not my fight'," I mock. "At some point in your life you're going to have to decide that _something_ is worth fighting for. If not this, then what? What the bloody hell are you waiting for?"

I stare at him for a few seconds, silently begging him to say something—anything—anything at all to let me know that he cares, that he knows it's worth it, that he is at least thinking about what we're up against.

He looks away.

We stand like that for a quiet moment. Something between us is starting to break, starting to fragment, starting to show tiny little stress fractures that will slowly spider into a precarious web. He finally pushes past me into the castle. I trace the edges of flagstones with the tip of my shoe until a lavender-tinted kitten starts nipping at my ankles.


	25. Heartlines

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Heartlines**

"Damnit!" I shout, my voice ringing off the trees as, for the sixteenth time that afternoon, I fall out of the focused mindset between human and horse.

Neville, sitting with his back against a boulder, looks up from his textbook. "No luck?"

I stalk over and throw myself on the ground next to him, throwing fistfuls of damp leaves into the air. It's only been two days since my fight with Luke, but most of the snow has completely melted, revealing layers of mildewy fall foliage that fills the entire forest with a faint scent of sickly-sweet rotting. "I'm horrid at this. I'm never going to get it right."

"It would probably help if you actually had your partner out here," Neville sing-songs to me.

I chuck a handful of leaves at him in response.

"You can't stay mad at him forever," Neville says, flicking the page of _1001 Magical Herbs and Fungi_. I wish I could talk to Neville about Growing; he'd be much better at it than I am.

"I've got six brothers," I say. "I'm rather skilled at grudge-holding."

"I wasn't doubting your ability," Neville says. "I'm just saying that if you'd like to stand a chance of not failing Transfiguration, you may want to try to smooth things over. Even if you don't think you did anything wrong."

"I _didn't_!"

"We can't ask people to risk their lives, Gin," Neville says gently, shutting his book. "I like Luke, and he's a decent guy, but as far as I can see, he's got no real reason to declare himself against You-Know-Who the way that we do."

I literally chew on my tongue to keep from spilling the truth about Luke's past. Lying to Neville about why I trust Luke is getting harder and trickier every day, especially when I'm as angry at Luke as I currently am. Some weird sense of loyalty keeps me quiet, though, and I focus on shredding a leaf with my fingernails.

"You should keep trying," Neville says after a few minutes. "It's half an hour to curfew."

"What's the point? I'm beginning to think that I legitimately can't do this. Maybe I should just tell McGonagall that I give up."

"That'd go really well," Neville says brightly. "And then, after that, you can go tell Umbridge that you've decided only to wear clothes with Harry's face on them!"

I toss more leaves at him. "Shut up. You haven't managed the transformation yet, either."

He bats the leaves out of the air. "Yeah, but I'm not giving up, I'm just not going to break McGonagall's rules and attempt it without Parvati."

"Ugh. Fine." I roll to my feet, brushing leaves from my bum and hair. I pace a small circle into the loam, thinking through everything I know about the Animagus transformation. I know that once you've managed the first transformation, you never have a problem getting into your animal form again. I know that getting injured while in animal form will cause corresponding injuries to your human form. I know that once you're in animal form, a constant though low-level stream of concentration is required to maintain the shape. I know the theory, the principles, the execution—_so why can't I get this right?_

The frustrated thought jars me and my concentration breaks again. I channel my anger into kicking a nearby tree and then swear when two-fold pain alerts me to the idiocy of my action: a dull throbbing spiraling up from my stubbed toe and a sharp flare of heat from my chest as the Rhea-spark chastises me for harming a tree.

"Sorry," I grumble to the tree and Rhea, massaging my bruised toe with one hand and my aching ribs with the other. Neville snorts with laughter, watching me with an amused look on his face. "Oh, shut it."

"You just apologized to a tree," he points out, handing me my bag.

"It's complicated," I say, trying to sound dignified. Neville just picks a twig out of my hair—pretty much ruining the whole dignity thing—and gestures for me to lead the way up to the castle.

"I don't understand why Luke's indifference doesn't make you angry, too," I say as we break out of the treeline. "All the people I've lost—Meg, Luna, Dean, Harry, Ron, Hermione—they're your friends, too."

Neville's jaw stiffens. "I know who we've lost, Gin. Don't ever, _ever_ think I don't know who we've lost. I just don't see the point in trying to pressure someone into joining what's turning out to be a potentially very deadly fight. We don't want to wind up with another Zacharias Smith on our hands. Besides, you've got the Quidditch team to think about."

"Yeah, Quidditch," I snort. "Because _that's _important."

"It's more important than you think," Neville says. "It's the only normal thing we have left."

"Oi! Ginny! Neville!" A voice from back toward the forest makes us turn around; Hagrid lumbers toward us. "I've got summat to talk to yeh about. Care for a cup o' tea?"

I check my watch: twenty minutes to curfew. We follow Hagrid into his hut and Fang immediately starts slobbering all over Neville's robes. Hagrid sets about making a pot of tea, refusing to answer questions until we're all three settled into oddly lumpy chairs, nursing bowl-sized mugs of peppermint tea.

Hagrid takes a deep pull from his mug, leaving the parts of his beard around his face dripping. "I'm goin' to have a party."

Neville and I blink at one another. "A party?"

"A party," Hagrid confirms. "I've been thinkin' about it fer a while now."

I take a sip of tea and cough as the scalding liquid invades my mouth. "What sort of party, Hagrid?"

Hagrid's eyes twinkle. He reaches between cushions of his chair and produces what appears to be a folded bedsheet; he unfurls it with a majestic gesture. Scrawled across the sheet in huge, untidy lettering are the words "Support Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived." At one end of the sheet is a rough stick figure drawing of Harry with an oversized lightning bolt scar on his forehead.

I'm too flabbergasted to speak, so I'm thankful when Neville manages to convey worry, sadness, confusion, and a hint of appreciation in two simple words: "Oh, _Hagrid._"

Hagrid beams at us. "It's brilliant, isn' it? Made it meself."

"You don't say," Neville says faintly.

"You're _mental_," I finally manage. Hagrid looks at me in surprise. "No, Hagrid, seriously, you're mental. They'll kill you for this."

"Let 'em try!" Hagrid says indignantly. "I've got a bit o' fight left in me."

"Ginny's right, Hagrid," Neville says fervently. "If Umbridge or Snape or Carrow finds out, you'll be slaughtered."

"And you know we'd have to tell the D.A. not to attend," I add. "It'd be insane for all of us to be together at a party in Harry's honor."

"I know that," Hagrid says gruffly. "Yeh think I don't know that? Still, I've got to do summat. Figured I'd make a list o' who came and give it to yeh, see if yeh can't recruit anyone new."

"I don't think we'd want anyone foolish enough to come to a 'Support Harry Potter' party in the D.A.," I say, trying to make my words gentle. "No offense."

"None taken," he rumbles. "How's Fawkes doin', anyway?"

"He's fine," I say, taken aback at the abrupt change of subject. "All grown and catching his own food and leaving dead mice on my pillow."

"Hagrid, what you're planning is incredibly dangerous," Neville says, bringing us back to the point. "What if you get caught?"

Hagrid looks down at us, bright eyes above tangle of a beard. "Yeh're young. Yeh've barely lived, and already yeh've got the weight o' this war on yer shoulders. Me, I've lived. An' I've seen a lot o' things. I stayed on at Hogwarts this year 'cause I love this place. It's mah home. An' because I thought I could protect yeh. But I can't protect yeh anymore. I'm not doin' any good here, feelin' like I've got mah hands tied behind mah back by Snape an' all. But there's a whole world out there fightin' this war, an' them I can help."

I fold my arms, fighting to stay calm. "So you're just going to leave?"

"Aye. Now don't go lookin' at me like that, it'll do yeh no good."

"Ha-_grid_," Neville and I plea in unison.

He raises one massive hand. "Not another word. I meant to tell yeh and I've told yeh and it's done. Fifteenth o' March. Now finish yer tea and get back up to the castle before yeh get in trouble."

* * *

Dinner is quiet that night. The Seventh Years have their heads bowed together, studying for the next day's Charms exam; my Chasers and Beaters are talking Quidditch strategy under their breath. The first match of the term, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin, is on Saturday, and the Slytherin Beaters look like they have a few ogres in their family trees. I sit between groups, half-heartedly participating in both conversations.

A jet black owl with a heart-shaped face alights on my shoulder and politely deposits a folded piece of parchment across the top of my goblet. My Housemates are all too engrossed in their discussions to notice. I unfold the letter and offer bits of vegetables to the owl, reading,

_Miss Weasley, _

_ Meet me in my office at 7 o'clock._

_ Headmaster Snape_

I turn the parchment over, but that's it. A single, borderline rude sentence. The owl wings away and I scan the Head Table; sure enough, Snape is nowhere to be found. My watch shows that I have ten minutes to make it to the headmaster's office, so I push away from the table and gather my things. Natalie, my fellow Chaser and D.A. member, catches my wrist and stands, speaking quietly so as not to be overhead.

"Where're you going?"

I wave the letter. "Royal summons."

Natalie gives it a once over. "Okay, fine, but you barely ate anything."

"What?" I look down at my plate and, sure enough, I made a small dent in my mashed potatoes and there are a few forkfuls of green beans missing, but that's it. And I'm pretty certain I fed the green beans to Snape's owl. "I guess I'm just not hungry."

"You haven't been hungry in weeks," she says gently. "Demi and I have noticed."

I look across the table to Demi, who is carefully ignoring the conversation. "It's not a big deal. I need to go, Nat."

"It _is_ a big deal," she protests. "You're getting really...little."

I think about a morning last week when I used magic to shrink the waist of my jeans a little because they kept falling down. I'd assumed at the time that they'd simply stretched out. "So, maybe I've lost a little weight. It's still not a big deal."

Natalie sighs. "If you won't listen to me because of your health, how about for the team? We're playing Slytherin on Saturday, and we can't have you getting knocked off your broom all the time because you haven't eaten a real meal since January." She quickly hollows out two rolls of bread and fills them with the rest of my mashed potatoes and green beans, the presses the makeshift sandwiches into my hands. "Please?"

Demi's eyes, filled with concern, flick up to me. I heave an overly dramatic sigh and take a big bite out of the green-bean-filled roll. "I'm sixteen, you know. I can feed myself."

Natalie shrugs. "You've got other things on your mind, Captain. Let me and Demi worry about this one."

I squeeze her hand gratefully and head for the door, finishing off the first roll as I go. I'm nearly there when a hand latches onto the strap of my bag and swings me around.

Daphne.

"So, your friends still have to remind you to eat, eh, Weasley?" she taunts. "New pals are stepping up to the challenge now that your precious little Meg isn't around?"

All I can do is stare, because there's no way that this is really happening. She's gone out of her way to avoid me ever since Fawkes' rookery put an end to her deceit nearly two weeks ago, and now, here, in Great Hall, at dinner, with everyone watching—_here _is where she chooses to confront me? And bring up _Meg_, no less? No, I must have finally had a mental breakdown. I must be hallucinating.

But no. It's happening. I know it's happening because every other eye in Great Hall is fixed on the space right in front of me, right where Daphne's fluffy little blonde head is.

"So here's what I've been thinking," Daphne says, starting to walk in a circle around me. I turn with her, always keeping her in front of me, the way Aloria and Firenze have taught me to deal with any predator I might encounter in the woods. "I've been thinking that, since you broke my wand so rudely last term, you should give me your wand to make up for it."

"Is that what you've been thinking?" I breathe. On our next circle, I see that Neville, Michael, and Seamus are all standing tensely over their seats.

"It's only fair," Daphne quips. "Not that your filthy little twig is anywhere near as good as my wand, but it's..._something_."

My "filthy little twig," in its customary place in my boot, gives a small shudder that reverberates through my entire body tenfold. I take a deep breath—I have so, _so_ many words prepared for this—but claw-like hands descend on my shoulders and trap the breath within my chest.

"Now, now, ladies," says Carrow, his voice horrifyingly close to my ear, his breath warm and wet against my neck, "Surely this is a conversation better held in private."

It takes every single ounce of concentration I have not to throw his hands off me and hex him into next week. I feel like my soul is being contaminated.

"But, sir!" Daphne pouts. "She broke my wand!"

Carrow winds a strand of my hair around his finger. "You did exceed the parameters of the exam, Miss Greengrass."

Daphne fumes, but doesn't protest further. Carrow inhales—_Merlin's beard, did he just _sniff_ my _hair?—and returns to the Head Table, trailing his nails along my shoulder blade for an instant longer than necessary as he does. Daphne watches him leave and then takes a step closer to me. "I would be angry," she says, "but I probably don't want anything of yours, do I? People associated with you do tend to die."

My Rhea-flame, which had been steadily increasing in intensity up until that point, suddenly flickers and shrinks back to a tiny spark, taking all the energy out of my body. "What are you talking about, Daphne?"

"Potter. Your brother. Their bushy-haired, brainy bitch. Your other ex-boyfriend, that Dean kid. That blonde Ravenclaw girl I can only assume you kept as a pet. And now your pathetic excuse for a best friend, who you didn't even notice was missing for over a month." Daphne turns and starts walking back to the Slytherin table, then pivots back to me. "I mean, you're not actually stupid enough to think that any of them might still be alive, are you?"

I hesitate. For half a second, I am frozen to the spot, hesitating as the dam I've been building up against that very thought for the past six months is blown to pieces. _Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dean, Luna, Meg_. They could all be dead. I haven't heard from Charlie in weeks; he could be dead. My parents—even Percy, the prick—Fred and George—I frantically try to think of my last communication with each of them. They could all be dead. We—me—the people in this castle, the D.A.—we could be all that's left.

For half a second, I am consumed with complete despair.

Then I bounce the remaining roll in the palm of my hand and, with all the grace and strength that years of Quidditch and having six older brothers have bestowed upon me, chuck it directly at Daphne's face. It impacts and splatters mashed potatoes all over her ridiculous hair.

I'm halfway across the entrance hall before the cheers erupt.

* * *

I step into Snape's office, slightly out of breath from my run to get here on time, still smiling at Daphne's shriek of outrage. The room is neater than the last two times I've been here, but there's still that overwhelming feeling of too many things in too small a space. Snape isn't here yet, so I make my way to the lone chair in front of Snape's desk and sit, narrowly avoiding overturning a stack of old Hogwarts Helpful Handbooks, and drop my bag to the side. I briefly consider trying to find the Sorting Hat again.

"Miss Weasley," a pleasant voice says from over my head. I look up to Professor Dumbledore's portrait; he is smiling down at me through half-moon glasses. "How are you?"

I consider the multitudes of answers to that question, settling on, "As well as can be expected, I suppose. Yourself?"

"Similar," he replies. "Now, we haven't much time before Severus returns. I never had the opportunity to thank you for your incredibly brave attempt to obtain the Sword of Gryffindor."

"Fat lot of good it did," I grumble. "I got caught thirty seconds after leaving this room. The sword is locked in Bellatrix Lestrange's Hogwarts vault now. If we hadn't switched the swords, Bellatrix would've taken the fake sword to Hogwarts without ever knowing and the real one would still be safe behind your portrait."

Dumbledore adjusts his glasses and makes a sheepish little noise in the back of his throat. "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest with you, Miss Weasley."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore's portrait swings out on its hinge, revealing the hidden compartment behind it. The _empty_ hidden compartment.

I push myself a little taller in my chair. "Someone took the fake sword, too?"

The portrait closes. "Yes. Bellatrix."

My brain is whirring. "I don't understand," I say slowly. "How?"

"The real Sword of Gryffindor was hanging over Severus' desk that day when you came to, shall we say, liberate it. The sword behind my portrait—the one you took—was a copy I commissioned from the goblins several years ago."

I sink back into my chair. "You knew I'd get caught."

Dumbledore smiles sadly. "I assumed, yes. It was I who informed Severus of your plan to take the sword in the first place and your intended escape route."

"You—_him_—he killed you! Severus Snape _killed_ you and now you're spying for him? How did you even—WHY?" I'm standing, screaming, fighting the urge to let Rhea's fire roar through my veins and set the office ablaze. After my little rendezvous with Daphne and Carrow, all my self-control has been used up.

"Miss Weasley, please try to understand. I am truly, truly sorry for the pain you suffered and my duplicitous role in the situation. It was, however, necessary. Bellatrix had to believe that the Sword of Gryffindor was in her possession, and there was no better way. It freed an ally to deliver the sword to the one who truly needed it."

My heart stutters. "H...Harry?"

Dumbledore chuckles. "Your youngest brother, actually. Although I daresay Harry may find use for the sword in the near future as well."

I collapse back into the chair, allowing myself a faint glimmer of hope. "Then—they're alive? Harry and Ron?"

"As of Christmas, yes. The sword was delivered to them and Miss Granger shortly after the holiday."

It's not the resounding confirmation I was hoping for, but it's more than I've had in months and I cling to it. I cycle Dumbledore's words in my mind, locking them into my memory to tell Neville and the others later.

"Hang on. You said that an 'ally' of yours delivered the real sword to Ron and Harry. What ally? Who? Who else has been breaking into Snape's office?"

As Dumbledore opens his mouth to speak, a hidden door on the side wall swings inward and Snape stalks out. He doesn't say anything, but it's clear from the set of his shoulders and the scowl on his face that he's in a singularly foul mood. Dumbledore gives me a wink and then sidles off beyond his frame and I am, for the second time in my life, alone in a room with Severus Snape.

"Miss Weasley," he says, swooping into his high-backed chair. "I understand that you are aware of Mr. Bronte's true identity."

It's not a question, so I don't answer, nor do I point out that if I hadn't known that Luke Callahan was actually Lucas Bronte, Snape would have just told me.

"You are also aware that young Mr. Bronte's relationship with his father is somewhat strained. As you are Lucas' Transfiguration partner and any disruption in his mentality may cause you harm, I am obligated to inform you that his father will be visiting Hogwarts in the next few days."

"Joseph Bronte. Leader of You-Know-Who's front in the States. He's coming _here_?"

"The appropriate name is 'The Dark Lord,' Miss Weasley."

I ignore the correction. _Luke's dad_. No wonder he'd been so touchy about joining a side when we fought two days ago. I grab my bag and stand up; I need to find Luke and talk to him, _now_, before the thought of his father being in the castle makes things between us even worse. "Is that all, sir?"

Snape's eyes flicker over me, and for a second it looks like he's going to say something, but he shifts his attention to a pile of ancient-looking scrolls. "You are dismissed."

I practically run for the door, but pause with my fingers on the doorknob. A single thought, left over from my confrontation with Daphne and Dumbledore's revelation, has lodged in my mind.

"You knew," I say quietly, addressing the door. "You knew that I was going to try to steal the sword."

There is a short pause. Then, "Yes."

"And you knew about Meg. The whole time."

"Yes."

I grip the doorknob so tightly that I'm surprised it doesn't crumple. "Is she alive?"

There is another pause, longer than the first.

"Please," I say, barely more than a whisper, a choked sound from vocal chords that can't seem to move, like my brain is trying to infringe upon my ability to ask this question that my heart desperately needs the answer to.

There is still another pause. I turn around. Snape is writing, adding some note to one of the scrolls. "I'm told that it was quick. Painless."

I squint at him. "What?"

"The spell," Snape says, still focused on his desk. "Narcissa Malfoy's work. Her hand was forced, but she made sure that the girl did not suffer."

I'm still squinting, a few steps behind, struggling to make sense of his words. "What?"

Snape looks up and fixes me with his gaze, two points of obsidian that seem to sear my skin. "Miss Dantley is dead, Miss Weasley. She was killed on the fourth of January after being abducted on her way to King's Cross Station."

My vision tunnels.

I open the door

slam it behind me

stairs

corridor

stairs

corridor

stairs

entrance hall

sprinting across the grounds, choking

breaking into the forest

and then I'm on my knees, screaming myself hoarse, crying so hard that I get violently sick.

[A/N] The title of this chapter, "Heartlines," is a song by Florence + The Machine.

Tania—thanks for reviewing! Positive feedback is super encouraging :]

Tayler—I have plans for Ginny's Animagus form, never fear.

I hope you all don't hate me now.


	26. If You Can't Leave It Be

**Chapter Twenty-Six: If You Can't Leave It Be**

It's been nearly seventy-two hours, and I still can't breathe properly.

I'm sitting cross-legged on the ground in a D.A. meeting that Neville and Michael are running over my head, talking about Hagrid's upcoming "Support Harry Potter" party and how none of us are supposed to attend. Bailey protests, but Michael cuts her down.

I haven't told anyone about Meg.

"Ginny?" Bailey says pleadingly.

I snap out of my trance and fix her with a stern glare. "Michael's right, Bailey. No party. For any of us. It's way too dangerous."

Steam practically comes out of Bailey's ears, but she accepts the ruling. Neville dismisses the meeting and people file away in pairs and trios until it's just me, Neville, and Parvati. They both look at me expectantly.

"What?" I say defensively, worried that they can somehow read my thoughts on my face.

"Where's Luke?" Parvati asks. "You told him to meet us here at 8:30, didn't you? It's almost nine."

I could slap myself. Of course: there's a huge Transfiguration exam in the morning. Neville, Parvati, Luke and I made plans to study for it last week. Luke and I have spoken twice since our fight: once in a lesson when he asked for a definition and I supplied it, and once when I cornered him in a hallway and demanded to know when his father was going to be at Hogwarts.

Right now, of course. His father was at Hogwarts at that very instant. Somewhere in this castle, Luke and his dad were having their first conversation in years.

"Right," I say, spinning for an excuse. "Luke, uh, got detention with Alecto Carrow."

Neville squints at me. "Luke didn't say anything in class today."

"No, not in class," I cover quickly. "On the Quidditch pitch. Alecto stopped by to comment on how we're going to get slaughtered on Saturday and Luke told her off. He doesn't get out until ten. Why don't you two just start studying now and we'll find you later?"

Parvati nods and heads up the stairs into the main castle; Neville hangs back, a look of concern on his face.

"Something wrong, Nev?" I ask nonchalantly, gathering my things.

"You tell me," he says. "What's happened?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You've been off for a few days."

I let out a sharp laugh, a harsh sound that surprises even me with its bitterness. "I've been off for six months, Neville. We all have."

"Don't, Gin, just...don't," he says, throwing one of my shoes to me. "You really think I can't read you better than that? You're acting like I did after I found out about Luna. Worse, even. Maybe the others can't see it because you're a bloody master carpenter when it comes to building walls around yourself, but you can talk to me. What's wrong?"

I pause in the act of tightening my shoelaces and look across the room at him. There are times when I still can't believe how much he's changed, but standing there with his wide, caring eyes, I can still see the chubby little kid who followed Harry, Ron, and Hermione around and dissolved into panic attacks every time Snape looked at him sideways.

Meg was Neville's friend, too. I could tell him. I should tell him, and we could help each other. For another half second, I hesitate again, just like with Daphne in Great Hall, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the pain I've got roiling around inside.

"Nothing," I say, forcing a smile to my face, focusing on making it genuine. "Luke and I still aren't on great terms, and I'm worried about the Transfiguration exam and the match on Saturday."

Neville looks at me, and whoever said that the eyes are the window to the soul must have been talking about him, because I can clearly see that he knows I'm lying and how much it hurts him. But he nods and leaves the room, jogging slightly to catch up with Parvati.

I finish tying my shoes, using the motions—folding knots, tightening them, strapping my trainers together—to clamp down on my emotions. I drop a short note onto a platter of half-eaten biscuits, thanking the house-elves for their food. Despite my repeated instructions that they aren't to help us anymore, Chives insists on sending some form of sustenance to every meeting.

I leave the Room of Requirement and stand idly in the corridor for a moment, scuffing my trainers on the rug, unsure of what to do with myself. It's nine now, but Luke said not to expect him until ten. I could go to the library, but that's where Neville and Parvati are and I don't think I'll be able to look Neville in the eye for a day or two. I could go to the Gryffindor common room, but there'll be people talking about the upcoming Quidditch match and the pit in my stomach can't handle any additional nerves. I could go up to my room, but I toss that thought out immediately. Yes, it's quiet there, but I haven't spent more than a few minutes in there since Monday night, just grabbing clothes or books. I've been sleeping in the common room. I can't sleep in the room where Meg's bed used to be, not now that I know—

I start wandering the halls aimlessly. I lose track of what time it is and just walk, reliving memories. The corridor where I'd scrawled Tom Riddle's messages on the wall in chicken blood. The spot I'd seen Bailey fighting the Slytherin First Years. A little alcove overlooking a courtyard where Meg liked to sit and study. The hall where the Goblet of Fire had stood. A classroom where Harry and I had stolen a kiss before this all went to hell.

I round a corner and run into two people, and almost fall over, but they each catch me under and elbow and help me regain my feet. Luke's face is unreadable as he stares at the man who is holding my other arm.

I'm not sure exactly how I was expecting Luke's father to be. A right-hand man of Voldemort, the Voldemort of the States. Like Snape or Carrow, maybe, all swoopy and creepy and intimidating. Or maybe like Lucius Malfoy, charming and disorienting and understated. Or like Bellatrix Lestrange, flat-out mental.

But this man? He could have been friends with my dad.

He is about the same height as Luke, and they have startlingly similar features. His brown hair is a little rumpled, but he has those same warm brown eyes and brilliant smile that he now flashes at me before pulling me into a hug, which tugs my arm out of Luke's grasp. "You must be Ginny. Lucas has told me so much about you."

"No, I haven't," Luke interjects, gripping his dad's shoulder and forcibly ending our hug. "I haven't spoken to him in years and I didn't mention you once just now."

"Oh, son, I'm just being polite," Mr. Bronte says, shaking off Luke's hand. "Fathers are allowed to be nice to their sons' girlfriends, you know."

"Stop it," Luke snaps. "She is not my girlfriend, and I am not your son. And even if she was, and even if I was, you still wouldn't be allowed to even _speak_ to her."

Mr. Bronte gives me a despairing look. "Teenage boys are impossible, aren't they?"

I find myself nodding, even being somewhat annoyed with Luke for being so mean to his dad, who is clearly kind and sweet, if a little scattered, and—_what the hell is wrong with me_?

"You should go," Luke says coldly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and moving around so that he's standing next to me.

Mr. Bronte sighs. "I suppose you're right. I've got a lot to do. But you'll think about what we talked about, won't you, son?"

"I am not your son," Luke says, like it's a mantra. "And no, I won't think about it. I already gave you my answer. I gave you my answer three years ago."

Mr. Bronte smiles at Luke, a horribly familiar smile that somehow makes me doubt every moment I've spent with Luke. "I know that you're confused now, and that the way we left things between us after your mother's disappearance was...not ideal. But you are one of us, Lucas. You will see that in time. Oh, and write a letter to your sisters every once in a while. They haven't heard from you in months."

Mr. Bronte turns and walks down the corridor, leaving Luke and I standing side-by-side, watching his retreating figure.

"Step-mother," Luke says under his breath. "She's my step-mother. And she didn't disappear. She's dead."

"I know."

Mr. Bronte turns around a corner. Luke and I continue to stare down the empty corridor. "So...that's your dad."

"Yep."

"I kind of like him."

"Yep."

"I hate that I kind of like him."

"Yep."

"Are you going to be okay?"

Luke takes in a deep breath, looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "I have no idea."

"Yeah," I agree. "Me either."

We are silent for a minute or two, then the words spring unbidden to my lips.

"Meg's dead."

Luke turns sharply. "What?"

"Meg. Since January. Snape told me."

"Oh, Ginny," Luke says. "I'm so sorry."

My eyes burn, but I don't have any tears left. "It's real now, you know? I mean, it's been real for a long time, ever since Sirius, and then with Moody, but it actually—because she's dead, and she was only seventeen, and we didn't even—she didn't even-."

"Ginny," Luke says gently, cupping my hand in his, cutting off my rambling. "I know. I know."

* * *

"You were wrong before."

"About what?" Luke asks absentmindedly, flipping pages in search of a fennec. It's several hours later and we're in the still-crowded Gryffindor common room, studying for tomorrow's Transfiguration exam. Well, Luke is studying; I've mostly been scanning my notes without absorbing anything and thinking.

"About it not being your fight," I say, choosing my words carefully.

He freezes mid-page-turn. "Ginny..." he says quietly, letting his voice trail off as a warning. _Don't go there, Ginny. Drop it. _

This is another one of those moments where I very clearly know my options and deliberately choose the one that's going to get me in the most trouble.

"No," I say. "On Sunday, you said that this wasn't your fight. But you're wrong. Your dad is a Death Eater. Your step-mother was a Death Eater. You—he said that you're one of them, Luke."

"I'm _not_," Luke insists. "He knows that. That's why I left him, to get me and my sisters out from under his thumb."

"You have little sisters," I jump in. His eyes meet mine violently and I can read the anger there, but I blunder on. "Chelsea and Dawn, right? They're young still, just kids."

"Ginny," Luke growls between his teeth. The spark of rage in his eyes is growing quickly, and I'm suddenly very glad that the Animagus transformation can't be triggered by something like anger, otherwise I'd have pissed off dog-Luke to deal with and I'd probably be dead by now.

"They have to live in this world too," I persist, ignoring the voice in the back of my head that's screaming to back off and run for it. "If you won't fight for yourself, if you won't fight for us, or for Meg or Luna—because you knew them, too—then you at least have to fight for them. They deserve better than this."

"What do you _want_ from me?" Luke asks abruptly, standing up suddenly and turning the table over in his haste. "You want me to say that I'll fight in your stupid war? Fine, Ginny, you win, I'll be on your side and commit to this suicide mission-."

"That's not what I want!" I interrupt, aware that I'm shouting into a crowded room, but beyond caring. "I want you to _want_ to fight, Luke. I want you to look at your life and at the world and realize that fighting is the only option. And I want that because, well, because I can't stand to think...I mean...if you honestly feel like you're making the right decision by sitting back and doing _nothing, _then I clearly don't know you at all."

"Well, maybe you don't!" He yells.

I am dimly aware that the entire common room is staring at us. I take deep, deep breaths, trying to soothe the energy from Rhea back to a controllable level. When I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to make anything explode, I step right up to him, ignoring the way his fists are clenched at his sides. "Bullshit," I say quietly, trying not to let my voice carry. "I know you better than anyone. I get that you're trying to not be like your parents by not picking a side, but you can't do that anymore. This is war, Luke, so pick our side, pick their side, hell, tell us all to bugger off and start your own side. But decide what you're going to fight for. Decide that there's something _worth_ fighting for. Just...do..._something_."

I grab my bag from where it fell when Luke turned the table over and push my way through the portrait hole, carefully avoiding eye contact with everyone. My feet carry me to the Room of Requirement, which comes up with a brightly-colored hammock and a mug of hot chocolate.

I spend the night staring at my D.A. Galleon, thinking about all the people I used to be able to contact with this tiny disc of gold.

* * *

The Transfiguration exam is a mess. Neville and I still can't manage our transformations, and Luke can't hold a form for more than a few seconds. Brighton, Julia's former partner, has something like a nervous breakdown and dumps his bottle of ink over his written exam, then sets it on fire.

McGonagall dismisses us an hour early.

Quidditch practice after dinner, our last before tomorrow's match against Slytherin, is also a mess. Luke and I alternate between completely ignoring one another and purposefully antagonizing each other, and the rest of the team splits down the middle to back one or the other, although none of them have any idea why we're fighting in the first place. Practice quickly gets out of control and becomes unnecessarily violent.

I dismiss us an hour early.

"Luke," I call as the rest of the team troops back up to the castle. "Hold up."

Luke glares at me like he's hoping he can turn me into dust if he tries hard enough, but waits. I lock up the equipment and meet Luke in the middle of the pitch.

"Look," I say, pulling my hair out of its ponytail. "I don't know—about what I said—I don't..." I trail off, take a breath, and start again. "We have a match tomorrow. We don't have to get along, but we don't stand a chance if the team is acting like this. And they're going to keep acting like this as long as you and I are...like this."

Luke narrows his eyes. "I'm not the one who keeps bringing it up."

"I know," I admit. "I just...I'm sorry for provoking you, okay? I was upset about Meg and I've been lying to Neville and Parvati and Michael and I'm so bloody worried about everyone all the time...I'm sorry."

Luke looks up into the night sky. I consider pointing out that Jupiter and Mars are in opposition, which seems to be the centaurs' fall-back phrase, but decide against it. He emits a noise somewhere between a groan and growl and drops his gaze back to me. "I'm sorry, too. It must be frustrating for you to be so invested in something and have me be so..._not_ invested."

I breathe a little easier. "I shouldn't push you about it, though. What we're doing is dangerous and pretty foolish, all things considered."

Luke snorts. "Ginny, I've come to know you fairly well over the past few months. 'Foolish' is not a word I'd use to describe you." As he laughs, Luke pushes up his sleeves and I catch sight of something on his forearm.

"Bid bad Luke has a tattoo?" I ask, struggling against a yawn.

"What?" He looks startled, then quickly rolls his sleeves back down. "No, it's nothing."

My curiosity is piqued and, for the second time in twenty-four hours, I'm ignoring the warning bells in my head. "C'mon, Luke, show me. What is it? A butterfly? Is that why you're embarrassed?"

"Don't, Ginny," he says, only half laughing as I prod at his shoulders and arm. "Seriously."

"Why?" I tease. "Is it a unicorn?"

"Yeah, you caught me, it's a unicorn," he says. "Goodnight, Ginny."

"Aww, come on, let me see!" I grab for his sleeve and he dodges away; I trip him and sixteen years of growing up with six older brothers kick in as we wrestle about on the pitch.

"Ginny, don't!" He protests. "I mean it, stop!"

"Yeah, sure," I say sarcastically, rolling to a halt as I pin him and yank back his sleeve. It takes less than a second for the image to sear itself onto my retinas. I let go of him like I've been burned and throw myself across the field. He's on his feet in an instant, coming toward me. I back away, hands outstretched.

"You _swore_," I breathe, barely able to think. I feel like I've been hit in the stomach by about fifty Bludgers in a row—I can't breathe, I'm in danger of throwing up, and everything just feels remarkably heavy. A haze of tears starts to blur my vision; I blink them away angrily. "You _swore_ that you didn't want anything to do with them. That you weren't one of them."

"I'm not!" He argues. "Ginny, please, listen to me!"

"I _trusted _you," I say. "That's why the Sorting Hat kicked you out. How could I have been so stupid?"

"Ginny, it's not like that!"

"Like hell it's not!" I shout.

"Ginny, _please_!"

"Don't touch me!" I shriek, smacking his hand away.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley, you're being totally irrational—."

"Lucas Demetri Bronte," I sneer, enjoying the way his face falls when I use his real last name, "I told you to pick a side. I guess I just didn't realize that you already had."

I dodge past him and run up to the castle, ignoring him calling after me, trying to scrub the image of the Dark Mark branded into his arm out of my brain.

[A/N] The title of this chapter, "If You Can't Leave It Be," is the first half of the title of Dashboard Confessional's song, "If You Can't Leave It Be, Might As Well Make It Bleed."


	27. How To Call A Bluff

**Chapter Twenty-Seven: How To Call A Bluff**

"You have to fix it," Neville says quietly. It's dinner on Saturday, just hours before the Gryffindor vs. Slytherin game, and although Neville doesn't know why Luke and I are fighting, he's heard about the disastrous practice from Jimmy, and Luke's day-long absence from the Gryffindor Tower has been painfully noticeable. "You have to."

"Can't be fixed, Nev," I say, pushing a spoonful of peas around my still-full plate. I'm not sure why I'm still keeping Luke's secret.

"So, what, you're just never going to speak to him again?"

I blink away the image of Luke's Dark Mark. "Not if I can help it."

"And you're going to let your team get slaughtered in a few hours?"

"It's just Quidditch. I know you have this theory about how important Quidditch is for normalcy or whatever, but it's just Quidditch."

Neville's reply is cut off by a resounding cheer from the far side of Great Hall as the Slytherin team, lead by Captain Guy Harper, leaves the room to parade down to the Quidditch pitch. I lean back in disgust, reaching up to my neck to fiddle with Aloria's necklace, but my fingers can't find the chain.

"I left my necklace upstairs," I say, shoving myself to my feet. "I need to go get it before the game. Team," I continue, raising my voice. Most of the Gryffindor table turns to me, not just the five present House team members. "Locker room in forty-five minutes."

I pace from Great Hall, ignoring the hisses and sneers from the Slytherin table. Aloria's necklace is looped over a rung of Fawkes' roost; I grab it and am trotting through the empty castle when I round a corner and stop, the low hum of a conversation disrupting the otherwise perfectly silent corridor. Light is spilling out from under a classroom door about halfway down the hall. I take slow, gentle steps, shifting my weight smoothly from foot to foot, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Charlie for teaching me how to spy on Percy when I was six. I stop just outside the door. The voices are still muffled—someone must have spelled the door—but Luke's voice is distinctive even through the magical shield. I dig in my pocket and produce an Extendable Eye, a prototype of Fred and George's that they gave me at Christmas. I thread the string under the door and press the other end against my closed eye. The image is blurry and flickering, but I see everything I need to see: Luke, talking to Fenrir Greyback.

I pull the Extendable Eye with shaking hands and creep away.

* * *

Luke gets to the locker room a few minutes after I do. I can't even look at him without feeling vaguely nauseous, so I don't look at him. Or speak. I know that I should give some sort of pep talk—Fred and George used to rave about Oliver Wood's pre-match speeches—but that would involve thinking about something besides my Dark-Marked Keeper chatting up Voldemort's pet werewolf who just so happened to nearly kill one of my brothers, and my mouth and brain seem hopelessly disconnected for the time being. Through the window, I can see that the storm that has been looming on the horizon all afternoon is finally rolling in.

I shake Guy's hand at mid-field, sizing him up. He's Sixth Year like me, but we've hardly ever interacted off the Quidditch pitch. He's a decent Keeper, from what I remember, but he's definitely no Luke or Ron and he's got a weak low right side. He is clearly sizing me up in return, and I can't help wondering what he sees.

The game is awful. Madame Hooch's opening whistle is lost in a thunderclap, and it only gets worse from there. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin games are always violent, but this one is in a league of its own. Slytherin's mountain-sized Beaters have discouragingly good aim; I'm blindsided by a Bludger three times within the first ten minutes, and although I can't see what's going on over most of the pitch due to the slanting, freezing rain, it sounds like Demi and Natalie are having similar problems. Luckily, Jimmy and Ritchie have taken their alliance with Luke to heart and are launching full-scale attacks on any Slytherin who gets within range of the goal posts. Madame Hooch is calling penalties left and right, but the conditions are so terrible that only a few shots are any good; after half an hour of play, it's 30-30 and the wind is picking up. I'm hovering mid-field, trying to get a handle on where everyone is, when Evan comes speeding up through the rain and careens to a halt next to me.

"Hey, Captain," he says breathlessly. "Listen, I just talked to Graham—he's their Seeker—and we're both pretty sure there's no way in hell we're going to even be able to _see_ the Snitch in this weather, let alone catch it."

"No kidding," I call back over the wind. A bell sounds at one end of the pitch followed by a roar of approval from the crowd; Michael, who is commentating on the match, announces via magical loudspeaker that Natalie has scored. "Can I do anything to help?"

Evan shakes his head. "Graham's talking to Guy, and if we can get the two of you on board, try to get the rest of the game postponed?"

I seize the front of Evan's robes and pull him forward as a Bludger screams through the spot his head was just an instant before. My fingers are so cold that I can barely feel the material of his robes, something inside my mouth is bleeding, and I have no idea where my other two Chasers are.

I nod. "I'm in."

Evan throws me a grateful look and zooms off to find Graham. I spend a few more minutes drifting around, trying to find the Quaffle or a teammate. A whistle cuts through the general din of the game and Michael's voice echoes throughout the stadium:

"Captains to the ground at mid-field, please. Other players, please gather at your home goal posts. Repeat, captains to ground at mid-field; everyone else to home goal posts."

It takes me a moment to find mid-pitch. I dismount onto the muddy ground that is only minutes away from being covered in a layer of standing water and stagger to where Guy and Madame Hooch are waiting, hunched against the rain.

"Conditions are awful!" Hooch roars, a little unnecessarily. "And your teams are getting out of control. Someone could be seriously hurt and I won't be able to see it. We're allowed to postpone the game for up to three weeks to wait for better conditions, picking up where we left off, Gryffindor 40, Slytherin 30. Opinions?"

Guy and I squint at one another through the deluge. It looks like he has a bloody nose, but the water keeps wiping it clean.

"My Seeker," we both say at the same time.

"They're never going to catch the Snitch in this crap?" I supply.

Guy nods. "Plus, I think one of my Chasers has a broken arm. Postponing is fine with me."

"Me as well," I agree. Guy and I shake hands again, then Madame Hooch flies off to deliver the news to the faculty's box. As Michael makes the announcement to the disgruntled crowd, I fly blindly for the locker room. The rest of the team joins me shortly, and everyone is in various stages of disrepair. Ritchie is looking a little dazed, Demi is sporting a blossoming black eye, and Natalie's nose is positively spewing blood—apparently she and Guy collided face-first during her last scoring drive.

The inside door to the locker room swings open and Neville and Seamus tumble through. Seamus, true to his nature, looks positively delighted at the bloodbath he'd just witnessed; Neville, on the other hand, looks slightly panicked until he does a headcount, and then his face clears. "Oh, thank Merlin, you're all still alive. It was impossible to tell, people kept disappearing and Madame Hooch kept calling fouls for unprovoked attacks and excessive brutality."

"I told him that they'd stop the match if someone actually died," Seamus says, rolling his eyes, "but the ninny wouldn't hear a word of it. Good start, anyway! Exciting! Ritchie, that Bludger you sent at Corbin when he was rushing the posts was absolutely brilliant."

The door swings inward again and Michael joins us, wet hair plastered in odd spikes against his face. "Everyone okay in here? Lucia Winters has got a broken arm and David Shenley lost a few teeth."

"I think Ritchie's got a concussion," Jimmy says, helping his fellow Beater out of his sodden robes. "Shenley lost his teeth on the back of his head."

Ritchie offers a weak thumbs-up and a crooked grin. Seamus scoops the Fourth Year up in his arms and turns to me. "Permission to take Coote here up to the Hospital Wing, Captain?"

I wearily nod my assent and Seamus, trailed by Evan, carts Ritchie away.

"It was a good hit on Ritchie's part," Luke picks up. "It's just too bad that Ginny didn't have them running cross-post deflections in practice yesterday, or that second goal could have been prevented."

"Oh, I don't know," Jimmy says mildly. "I've never been much good at that angle."

"No need to apologize for shoddy leadership, Jim," Luke says. "It's not your fault that we've got a captain who isn't fit to lead her way out of a paper bag."

There is not a single sound in the locker room following this statement. No one moves. No one even breathes.

"Everyone out," I say, keeping my voice as level as I can. A couple of my teammates, still wearing wet trainers or hoping for a warm shower, grumble, but I fix them with my best Molly Weasley stare and they scatter. Neville and Michael hang back, warily shifting their attention between me and Luke. Rhea—or maybe it's just my good-old-fashioned penchant for making things explode when I'm angry—is flaring in my chest.

"Neville, Michael, you should go," Luke says quietly, not taking his eyes off me.

"Aw, let them stay, Luke!" I counter, making my voice innocent and forcing a smile to my lips. "It's not like you've been keeping any secrets from them, is it? Something you wouldn't want them to hear?"

Luke's already dark brown eyes deepen to a murky black. "You wouldn't."

"I _wouldn't_? If you knew _anything _about me, you would know that there's _nothing _I wouldn't do to protect the people I care about. And guess what, Luke? You're not one of those people anymore."

The surprise jolts through Luke's face, bringing his eyes back to normal. "Gin, I'm not putting anyone in danger."

"Like hell you're not!" I shout. "All you've done since you got here is lie and I've been lying for you because McGonagall asked me to and, Merlin help me, I trusted you even through everyone told me not to because I thought that you were at least telling _me_ the truth."

"I was!" Luke yelps. "I am! I haven't lied to you—okay, well, I have, but not about what you think I've been lying about—and I've been trying to tell you the truth for weeks but you're always too busy being a touchy little brat to let me explain!"

I shriek wordlessly and launch myself across the room at him, but Neville and Michael shout "_Protego_!" at the same time, and the combined force of their shielding spells rebounds me to the floor.

"So explain it to me!" I shout through the transparent double barrier as I shove myself furiously to my feet. He shakes his head and stares at the floor, getting more and more agitated. "Explain why you get 'sick' but don't go to the Hospital Wing, or you do go but you leave an hour later. Explain where you went last month when you said you were visiting your sisters, because your dad said that you haven't talked to them in months. Explain how Firenze knew who you were that first day in the woods without an introduction, and why you were talking to Fenrir Greyback half an hour before the match started, and explain why you have the bloody Dark Mark tattooed on your arm, explain why your father is-!"

"I'M A WEREWOLF!"

In the silence that follows Luke's outburst, Michael drops his wand in shock.

I stutter."You...I'm sorry...what?"

Luke steps backward until he hit the lockers, then slides to the floor with his head in his hands. "I'm a werewolf. Have been for a few years."

My head spins. I slowly lower myself to the bench, watching him. "I still don't really...explain."

He lifts his head to look at me and my heart very nearly breaks; I've only seen such desperation and hopelessness a few times before.

"Explain, please," I amend, trying to sound gentler. And like I'm not about to throw up.

Luke takes a deep breath. "I was turned three years ago. It was awful at first, Gin, honest, like going completely out of my mind, watching myself do all these terrible things and I couldn't control any of it. There's a potion that makes me less...vicious. Less of a werewolf and more of just a normal wolf, and I can keep a handle on what I do a little better. But it's not an exact science, so I try to make sure I'm not in the castle when the moon's full. So I go out to the Forbidden Forest for two days every month. It's where I've been when I've missed lessons and been 'sick' and when I told you I was visiting my sisters. Firenze knew me because I met him the first time I was out there. It's nice to have company; it helps keep me human."

"Prove it," Michael says abruptly. Luke, Neville, and I all turn our heads to him sharply; he's picked up his wand and is holding it level with Luke's chest.

"What?" Luke asks, confused.

"You could just be saying that you're a werewolf to throw Ginny off," Michael says. "You're Lucas Bronte, right? There was a rumor at the beginning of the year, but Ginny trusted you, so I let it slide. But if you've got a Dark Mark...prove that you're a werewolf."

"You can't prove that you're a werewolf if it's not the full moon," Neville interjects, still suspending a Shield Charm across the room. Then he shoots a sideways glance at Luke. "It's not a full moon, is it?"

"Week from now," Luke says faintly.

"Week from now," Neville says firmly. "So he can't prove it for a week. We lock him in the Room of Requirement until then?"

"Wait!" Luke says. "Wait. Ginny, look—."

Then dog-Luke is sitting on the floor in human-Luke's place, only, now that I'm looking for it, Luke's Animagus form isn't a giant dog that has some wolfish features, but rather a chocolate brown wolf with some dog-like features.

_Oh_.

I try to cross the room, get rebounded by Neville's shield—"Nev, please!"—he drops the spell—and carefully reach out my palm in front of Luke's muzzle. He pushes his cold, wet nose against my hand and gives a small whine.

"Okay," I say, looking into his eyes. "I believe you."

"What?" Michael explodes. "Just because he's a bloody dog, that doesn't prove anything!"

I drop my hand and turn to Michael, who is still holding his wand pointing at Luke's heart. I step defensively between the two of them. "Michael."

"No, Ginny!" He shouts. "You've been lying to me and Neville all year about this kid! And now we're supposed to forgive all of that from both of you?"

I run my hand through my still-damp hair. "No, not forgive, but understand, maybe. I still don't know—wait, Luke, why didn't you tell me?"

Luke whirs back to human form and laughs bitterly. "You're joking, right? Werewolves aren't exactly known for being great party guests. I've seen how you react whenever Greyback's name is mentioned."

"Fenrir Greyback mauled my older brother," I say. "Besides, hasn't anyone ever told you about Remus Lupin?"

"Who?"

"Werewolf who taught here a few years ago," Neville says faintly, the first time he's spoken since Luke's revelation. "He's in the Order. Good friends with Harry. Married our friend Tonks. They're having a baby soon."

Luke looks a little like he's been hit by a truck. "Married? To someone who's not a werewolf? And having a baby?"

"She's due in a month," I supply.

"Stop talking to him like he's our friend!" Michael shouts. "Even if he is a werewolf, he was still talking to Greyback!"

"He cornered me!" Luke protests. "He's been trying to get me to join his pack ever since I got back from the States. He thinks I owe it to him, since he's the one that turned me."

"Fenrir Greyback has a _pack_?" Neville asks.

Luke nods. "It's only a few wolves right now, but it's the same idea as..." he trails off, thinking, then lets out a breath. "Okay. When I first turned, they—my dad and Arlene—wanted to use me. Thought it'd be a good incentive for prisoners to talk, if you told them you were going to lock them in a room with a werewolf on the full moon. They actually did it once, the third time I turned. I was only fifteen, and they wouldn't give me the potion, and, and...I couldn't control it. I tried to fight it with everything I had, but I couldn't. I still remember the look on the man's face. Every scream. Every name he called out. They gave me the Dark Mark when I was unconscious after transforming back, as a reward for my first kill." Luke's face is pale and expressionless. "When I came to afterwards, I started working on getting me, Chelsea, and Dawn out of there. "

"And Greyback's the one who bit you?" I ask.

"He didn't bite me," Luke says, a stormy look settles on Luke's face. "My dad gathered Greyback's venom and injected me with it."

My heart jumps into my throat, Michael curses, and Neville sits down heavily.

"Oh, Luke..."

"On my fifteenth birthday," Luke continues, talking over our reactions. "He told me it was a present, that it would make me a fighter. Make me strong. Then he tied me to a table and slammed a syringe of werewolf toxin into my heart."

[A/N] The title of this chapter, "How To Call A Bluff," is the title of a song by My Favorite Highway.

THE TRUTH IS REVEALED.

I promise to reply to everyone's reviews individually very very soon, but I'm in the process of moving my entire life to a different state (hooray early graduation! hooray full-time job!) and am a wee bit on the hectic side. I LOVE YOU ALL.


	28. Bound By Words Of Meaning

**Chapter Twenty-Eight: Bound By Words Of Meaning**

The castle is quiet for a week, with the exception of the dinner at which Snape announces that Quidditch is cancelled for the rest of the term. The rest of my team howls in outrage, but I can't say I didn't see it coming. We have another D.A. meeting Wednesday night, mainly to reinforce the idea that no one is supposed to attend Hagrid's party on Monday. Luke attends and succinctly explains who he really is, asking the D.A. to keep the information to themselves, so, naturally, the entire school knows by Thursday morning. Neville and I are both still failing Transfiguration, and I haven't turned in a Dark Arts homework assignment in weeks.

The full moon is Friday. The thirteenth.

"You really, really, really don't have to do this," Luke says for the millionth time as we traipse into the forest as the sun goes down.

"Oh, come off it," I say. "You've been taking the friendly-wolf-making potion all week and, besides, I know these woods a lot better than you do."

"The potion helps," Luke says, "but it's still dangerous. All it takes is one scratch or nip and you're done for."

"You said company helps keep you human, right?" I say. "So, I'm your company. I'll sit and do homework and talk to you and you can just do dog things until the sun rises."

"It'll be extremely boring," Luke says.

"After the month—term—year we've had, a little boring sounds pretty ideal. And if worst comes to worst, my family's already got one almost-werewolf and I'm hoping to be made godmother to a little werepup in a few weeks, so what's the harm in fully wolfing out?""

Luke grumbles a little more, but follows without further protest.

We reach the clearing an hour or so before the moon rises. I use my wand to set small bluebell fires in jars around the perimeter of the clearing while Luke makes a variation of his potion and chugs it forcibly. I watch his entire body shudder, clearly rejecting the compound, with concern.

"What's _in_ that?"

"The normal stuff plus a healthy dose of wolfsbane," Luke says, holding his stomach with both hands. "Burns like you wouldn't believe, but kills my strength a little. I'm not taking any chances, not with you here."

We settle in, waiting for the moon. I watch Luke out of the corner of my eye, but he seems content to lie flat on his back on the chilly, mid-March ground that is just starting to show new shoots of green.

I absentmindedly start tracing the symbols from Aloria's Growing spell into the dust on a flat rock next to me. I still can't make heads or tails of the language and none of the symbols look to me like sounds should be related to them, but Merlin knows I've spent enough time staring at that piece of parchment that I can now draw them from memory.

Luke suddenly cranes over me, peering at the rock. "What makes you think that rock understands Agberian?"

I sit up so sharply that I clock Luke's chin with the top of my head; we both curse and rubbed the injured spots. "You recognize this?"

"I took a few classes in ancient magical languages when I was in the States," Luke says, now probing at the inside of his mouth with a finger. "It's Agberian. I think you knocked a tooth loose."

"Yeah, yeah, sorry about that. Agberian?"

"From the Legend of the Agbers."

I stare at him blankly.

He sighs. "This is why I went to school in the States. Education over here is simply miserable. The Agber was the first name for the centaur, back millennia ago when they first showed up on the planet, centuries and centuries before humans popped in. It was the name they gave themselves and they extended that name to their language, which supposedly gave them the power to shape the world around them. Mind, this is all mythological stuff; I've got no idea how much of it is true."

I trace the third symbol in the series, a sort of spiraling oval that was cut through by three wavy lines. "Can you read this?"

Luke snorts. "No one can read Agberian, Gin. Legend has it that even most centaurs today can't understand more than a few bits that they've folded into their magic. The knowledge just sort of got lost over the years. Ohhhh, crap, here we go."

A tremor runs down Luke's spine and he throws himself away from me across the clearing. "Last chance to run, Gin."

I watch his fists clenching and unclenching rapidly at his sides. "I'm staying."

Another tremor, and this one forces Luke to his knees. An animalistic scream erupts from his throat. I watch the transformation, caught by some horrible fascination. It's slower than I imagined and horribly violent, taking at least five minutes as each of Luke's bones breaks and joints dislocate and every bit of his skin tears and repairs and sprouts fur, and if the sounds Luke is making are any indication, it is mind-shatteringly painful.

When the quaking finally stops, Luke lays on the ground for a few more minutes, panting. I stay very still and quiet as he stands, facing away from me. He's the same rich dark brown as his Animagus form, but there's no mistaking this creature for a pet. Every angle and plane of his body screams predator, from the tightly coiled muscles in his back legs to the roll of his shoulders to the wicked curve of his fangs.

_If the potion doesn't work, I'm dead._

I shift my weight uneasily and ruffle a pile of leaves; Luke whirls on me and crouches, a low, steady snarl ripping out of his chest, ears flat against his head.

"Easy, Luke," I say, raising my hands defensively. "I'm Ginny, remember? I'm Ginny and you're Luke."

There's a split second where I insanely consider running for it, but then Luke's ears flick up and he jumps on me happily, licking my face as he knocks me to the ground.

"Gross, Luke!" I complain, wiping his slobber off with a sleeve. He lets out a coughing little laugh and helps me up, nudging at my shoulder with his nose. Dog-Luke may be huge, but wolf-Luke absolutely dwarfs me—and, according to Luke, he's not done growing yet. He says that when he's an adult, his wolf will easily be the size of a horse.

"Well," I say, looking up at him. "Shall we study?"

Luke barks his assent and flops to the ground near our things; I lean against his veritable mountain of fur and open my History of Magic textbook. I read out loud to Luke about one of the dozens of goblin uprisings until we both fall asleep.

* * *

I wake up abruptly when Luke's entire body stiffens; I fall over as he springs to his paws, muzzle pointed into the trees in the direction of the castle. I roll to my feet, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

"Luke? What's wrong?"

He whines uneasily, not looking away from the trees.

"Luke?"

A howl rings through the forest. Luke crouches low, flattens his ears, and takes up a low, steady keening sound. A paralyzing thought suddenly springs into my mind.

"Luke," I say, fighting to keep my voice calm as bile rises in my throat, "Fenrir Greyback left Hogwarts after last week's match, right? You told him you wouldn't join his pack and he _left_, right?"

Luke turns to me, soft brown eyes still recognizable in an otherwise terrifying face, and whines again.

"Luke," I repeat, and this time there's no mistaking the tremble in my halting voice, "Tell me that Fenrir Greyback is not running around the Forbidden Forest as a fully-grown, bloodthirsty, completely non-human werewolf."

The howl sounds again, closer this time, and several others join in.

"Luke," I say for the third time, and this time my voice cracks. "Tell me that his pack isn't here, too."

Luke growls, paws at the ground, uses his claws to rip a tree stump to shreds. I wince away from flying razors of wood, thinking as quickly as I can against my rising panic. Greyback and his pack are between us and Hogwarts, so we can't go back to the castle for safety. Luke may be strong, and I know objectively that I'm clever and good with a Bat-Bogey hex, but there's no way we can survive fighting multiple adult werewolves. We could hide, but werewolves have highly sensitive noses, and there's still—I check my watch—almost an hour until the sun comes up...

I grab my and Luke's bags and run over to him, jumping up to grab him by the ears, forcing him to crouch so that his gigantic head is level with mine. "Luke, we have to get to the Dwelling. There are wards up against other magical creatures entering, but I can let you in if we get there in time. Do you understand?"

Luke yips and jerks his head up. I'm still gripping his ears and he's even stronger than he looks, so the motion flips me completely over his head and I land on his back. I just have time to loop my arms around his neck and twine my fingers into his fur, and then we're running through the forest at an unbelievable speed. I struggle to get my bearings until we cross a path I'm familiar with.

"We need to head further east!" I shout, trying to make myself heard over the rushing wind. Luke's ear flickers in acknowledgement and he alters our course. Somewhere behind us, Fenrir howls again, but it's a different sound this time—they've picked up our scent. Luke knows it, too, judging by the way he tenses under me and pushes us even faster. I try to look back over my shoulder to see how far away they are, but we're whipping past trees too quickly for me to make anything out.

"South!" I shout as we fly past a beech tree in a stand of firs that Firenze pointed out back in November. Luke wheels haphazardly and I cling on a little tighter. The baying behind us is getting closer. If the map of the forest I have in my head is accurate, at this speed we should make the boundary in less than a minute, but the spell to let someone else in is complicated and I've never even seen it performed, only read about it.

"East again!" I call, shifting my weight as Luke makes the necessary adjustment. I hold my breath, the bags slapping against my back with every stride, and then I'm flying headfirst toward the ground. I land and skid into the main clearing of the Dwelling, shrug off the bags, and sprint back to the treeline, where Luke is pacing and whining and pushing at the invisible barrier with his nose. Without the rushing of wind in my ears, I can just make out the sounds of our pursuers crashing through the undergrowth not too far behind. I am hailed by several nearby centaurs, but ignore them all—a nearly unforgivable breach of custom—and press my palms flat against the barrier, feeling the immovable resistance of several thousand years' worth of magic and energy poured into keeping the Dwelling safe.

"Werewolf," I say, blocking out Luke's panicked sounds and focusing on letting the Rhea-spark in my heart connect to the stream of Rhea that ran through the barrier, "why do you seek to gain entry to the Shanalore Dwelling? Just think it, Luke," I add. "The spell works for tree spirits and phoenixes and Cuthrian bush frogs and they can't speak either, so just think it."

Luke strains for a few seconds, then barks sharply. The crashing behind him is getting louder.

"Do you intend harm to The Dwelling?"

Bark.

"Will you allow yourself to be bound by the Dwelling's magic so that you cannot speak of our secrets to those who would do us harm?"

Luke looks at me, wary.

"It's a harmless binding spell, Luke, and I won't even take you anywhere where you could see something that we'd have to bind you for, so just take the bloody oath-!"

Bark.

"Okay, last step." I fumble on the ground for a sharp rock and gash my left palm open. Before Luke can react, I stick my hand out and plant it on his forehead, letting Rhea rush through me and into him. I do my best to blank my mind; this is the tricky bit, where Rhea, through me, will examine Luke and deem whether or not he is worthy to enter the Dwelling. I don't really understand how it works or how sentient Rhea really is, but Luke's fur is emitting a faint bluish glow, so something seems to be happening.

The loudest crash yet happens just over Luke's shoulder and he whips his head around to look, breaking our contact. _Did it work? Should something have happened? _The glow around his fur vanishes as another werewolf emerges from behind a tree, leaping at him, and I instinctively jump up, lock my arms around Luke's neck, and let my entire body weight drag him off balance and through the barrier.

I have the briefest moment of relief—_Luke is safe_—and then jolt as some physical presence slams into me. Standing up, I see that Greyback and his pack—four other werewolves—are throwing themselves bodily against the wards. Every impact sends a shudder through my body. Falling didn't break my connection to Rhea; the centaurs' ancient river of energy is coursing strongly through my veins, and each new attack on the barrier reverberates through me.

Logically, I know that the werewolves don't pose a threat. They can beat themselves bloody against the invisible wall, but no amount of physical force will ever penetrate the wards. The magic in their blood, just like with thestrals, hippogriffs, giants, dragons, Aragog's band of giant spiders, and any other magical creature, is incompatible with Rhea's magic. Rhea can grant one of them access, provided that they are pure of heart and spoken for by one of the Dwelling, but without her permission, the wall might as well be twenty meters of solid iron. Logically, I know this to be true.

But I am far, far past logic. It's too soon after learning about Meg, it's too soon after losing Luna, it's all just too soon and too _much_. Centaurs are babbling behind me, talking about rallying the Defenders, and I hear one of the young ones start crying out of fear. But I'm not scared anymore. I was terrified when Luke and I were running for our lives, but that fear is gone.

Now, I am _pissed._

"NO!" I shriek, slamming my palms up against the barrier. Lines of blue light shoot from the contact points, crisscrossing overhead, stretching away to the sides, diving into the earth, outlining the impossibly vast sphere—half underground—that the Dwelling's magic protects. The entire Dwelling and its surrounding areas are illuminated with a flickering, bluish-white light: the same light that came from Luke's fur, the same light that filled the orb at my Calling. My left hand is still bleeding freely, and the blood spirals away from my hand in every direction. Up close, I can see that the boundary isn't the smooth, single pane of magic I'd envisioned; instead, it is comprised of millions upon millions of symbols—_Agberian_, my brain supplies—woven together, over and under one another, completely intertwined, creating a single, impenetrable whole.

Greyback, his face eerily lit by the barrier, snarls at me. I consider snarling back, but am distracted by a line of symbols that seem to be swimming, just above my left fingertips. I squint at them and the sound is coming out of my throat before I know what's happening—the mix of humming and wordless singing that Aloria uses to Grow, that all centaurs use to make those balls of pulsing light—only it's not wordless anymore—or maybe it is, because these certainly aren't words, but it's a definite language—

I am reading Agberian, I am channeling Rhea, I am channeling centaurian magic. I have no idea what I'm saying or reading, but the feeling swells up inside of me as I continue to weave the spell, adding my own layer of symbols to the boundary, and it's all focused on a single word.

_Push. _

I lean into the boundary, tensing every muscle in my body, straining across my shoulders—and then it gives.

Well, it doesn't "give," exactly. It moves. It grows. It expands. The entire boundary pushes outward. Not far, just ten centimeters or so, just far enough that I can still feel the wall with my fingertips and I immediately step forward to anchor my palms against it again. I hear cries of astonishment from the centaurs who have begun to gather around me, but I'm focused on Greyback, who is now watching me and the barrier with wary eyes.

The energy leaves me in a sudden, delayed rush, and I almost fall and break contact until something firm and warm plants between my shoulderblades, bolstering me up. I spare a second to glance back; Luke has the flat of his head up against my spine. He opens his muzzle and, although I have no idea how he's doing it, and although the centaurian spell-weaving sound is incredibly odd coming from a werewolf, his song blends with mine and, between the two of us, we're able to push the boundary another few centimeters forward.

A hand closes on my shoulder and Firenze's voice adds to ours; a second later, there's another hand and Aloria joins in. We push forward a full meter or so, only this time, there's no sudden depletion of energy. I look back once more and see that every centaur in the Dwelling is standing with his hand on someone's shoulder, linking us all together, everyone's mouths open as the spell grows stronger and stronger. Even the youngest centaur in the Dwelling—Rekka, who, at thirty-four, is barely more than an infant in centaur years—is hanging onto Luke's tail and singing in a high, sweet soprano.

We move the barrier back at least ten meters, an occasional group of centaurs forced to break off and then rejoin as we thread through the trees, but Luke, Firenze, and Aloria are constant presences. I halt when a quiet voice in my head tells me that we've gone far enough. Every werewolf except Greyback has fled.

"Fenrir Greyback," I say loudly, fixing him in my gaze. I might be speaking English again, but the words are still not mine. "You and yours are not welcome here. Not in our Dwelling, not in our forest, not in any other Dwelling the world over. You are a pollution to this planet. We will not forget. We will not forgive. You are, now and forever, marked as an enemy to our race. Now go. GO!"

There is a blinding flash followed by a shockwave that blows me off my feet, back into Luke, Aloria, and Firenze and, through them, down the chain of connected centaurs. When I can breathe, move, and see again, I sit up and find a very human Luke smiling at me, basking in the rays of the newly-born day while Rekka canters circles around him, apparently very amused by his transformation.

"Thought you said you weren't going to show me anything worth protecting with a binding spell?" Luke pants.

"Thought _you_ said it was going to be a boring night," I counter.

"Again, again!" Rekka demands.

Luke and I look at each other and burst into laughter.

* * *

Down, down, down. I have forcible flashbacks to my first visit to the Dwelling, traipsing along this gently spiraling, constantly descending hall with Firenze on my way to meet Magorian. The now-familiar balls of color-pulsing light seem to blink a warning at me as I follow Firenze, Aloria, and Callan down into the vast depths of the Canopy. It's been nearly an hour since the events that transpired at the boundary aboveground; a single hour, and the Elders have called an emergency Gathering. As only full members of the Dwelling are permitted to attend a Gathering, Luke and the young centaurs got to stay up above; I ruefully watched the Canopy doors swing shut on them playing a game involving several intricately woven reed balls in the sunlight before starting the journey down.

The four of us are among the last of the Dwelling to enter; we follow the countless tails in front of us down past dozens of closed doors, pass through Magorian's council room, and finally emerge into the bottom level of the Canopy: a huge, high-ceiling-ed, tiered meeting hall with a raised dais at the center. Ten centaurs stand on the platform in a tight circle, clearly discussing something. _The Elders_.

Well, nine of the ten Elders, anyway. There were ten Orders (Grower, Defender, Watcher, etc.) within the centaur community, and each Order had an elected leader who served on the council of Elders. Each was to speak for his or her Order, and thus represent the voice of the Dwelling. They had collective authority greater than Magorian's, but he cast the tie-breaking vote when necessary and was the overall leader of the Dwelling.

As I follow Aloria down the central aisle of steps, heading for the base of the room near the dais, Firenze turns off into a row of fellow Watchers. Below, Ronan trots up to the platform and takes a spot between two Elders I don't recognize.

"Ronan's an Elder?" I ask, somewhat taken aback. As the son of the Dwelling's deposed king, it seems somewhat a smack in the face that Ronan would serve on the democratic council.

"The Speakers elect him as their leader every year without fail," Callan says. "He is the longest-standing Elder in Dwelling history."

We reach the bottom tier of the hall and take what I assume are spots of honor, given that Aloria is Magorian's daughter, Callan is the Dwelling's oldest centaur and most knowledgeable Keeper, and I'm the apparent cause of the entire Gathering. Magorian sweeps through a side door seconds later and an expectant hush falls over the entire room. He begins to speak, calling the meeting to order, his booming bass rumbling through my chest. I know that I should be paying attention, but I'm really remarkably tired and instead find myself lost in thoughts about the nature of a centaur society – so focused on custom and traditional, so formal and controlled, so very, very...predictable.

I'm jostled out of these thoughts when Callan rises to her hooves and replaces Magorian at the center of the dais.

"Brothers, sisters, sons, daughters," she begins. "What we have witnessed – nay, participated in – this morning was an act of the purest, oldest magic known to this land. A forgotten magic, lost to us millennia past. I and those of my Order are charged with Keeping the legends of the ancient times for just such a moment as this. You all have questions, many of you have been pondering the relationship between Callisto and Io – I cannot hope to resolve your every query. I can, however, relate to you the Legend of the Boundaries, and perhaps, at hearing it, your hearts will be lighter.

"Many thousands of years ago, our predecessors stood on this land with a heavy burden and an impossible task. They knew that their time on this planet was coming to a close, and that they would soon be succeeded by a new race – our race. They were an unbendable people; pure, unsullied, incorruptible. And they were the masters of a great and terrible magic, a force that could rip apart the cosmos on the barest whim, a tide that could shape entire civilizations out of dust. But they knew that those to come after them would not be the same. They looked to the stars and saw that we would be weaker, prone to stray from the path of light, and they feared for what their awesome magic could do in our wavering hands.

"So they trapped their magic in words. Words of great meaning and power, words for the light and the dark and the grey. Words we could use without knowing the words themselves if we sought to understand the meaning behind them. And thus, they limited us. To protect the world from so vast a power, they hid from us the words.

"Today, we saw those words. We saw them reflected in the boundary that protects all within from that which is without. We saw a human foal –" I flush crimson as every eye in the hall flicks to me – "add her words to the boundary, and we lent her our voices and our strength and our own words. For a moment, just a brief, fleeting moment, we saw through our limitations to the unparalleled energy from whence we came. We became more than we are."

Callan turns to me and smiles gently. "And we were lead there by this human."

* * *

It is nearly dark by the time Luke and I begin the trek back to the castle. Ronan accompanies us; Luke bounds ahead, back in his Animagus form, giving the centaur and I time to speak in relative privacy.

"The young werewolf," Ronan states matter-of-factly. "He is a strange breed, but he is welcome among these trees so long as he does no harm."

"Thank you," I say. I don't know what else to say.

"The boundary will remain open to him unless you retract the welcome. Please see to it that he minds our secrets carefully."

"The Elders bound him, didn't they?"

"Yes, Grower. But he is, indeed a werewolf, and the spell's power has never been tested on this particular breed of Children of the Moon."

I am silent for a moment, watching Luke paw at a frozen badger hole. As if he can sense me looking, he looks over a shoulder with a goofy, tongue-out grin and wags his tail. "He'll behave. I promise."

We walk quietly for a few more moments. I look up at Ronan, trying to figure out how to bring up what I want to talk about. I decide that subtlety has never been my strong suit and launch into it bluntly. "I know about your father."

Ronan eyes me with something like amusement in his eyes. "I take it Keeper Callan has been telling stories."

"She's just been teaching me the history of the Dwelling," I say defensively. "Your father was bound to come up. I'm sorry for your loss."

"My loss may not be quite what you think."

"What do you mean?"

"Mars and Jupiter are in opposition, Ginevra," he says.

"You and Firenze keep telling me that," I say. "What does it mean? I guessed conflict, and Firenze said I was right, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?"

A ghost of a smile plays on Ronan's lips. "Foretellings are not to be explained, Ginevra. Look it up if you must know."

"I _have_ looked it up!" I protest. "Every star chart, every textbook, every professor who knows anything about Astronomy or Divination, and it's always the same one-word answer. Conflict."

"Perhaps, then, you are not looking in the right places."

"Perhaps not," I scowl. We break the forest line near Hagrid's hut; he hails us and proudly holds up a blackened brick, which I'm assuming is meant to be a fruitcake. Luke engages Fang in a friendly wrestling match, all giant paws and slobber.

"Would you stay?" I ask Ronan hopefully. "There are still so many things I don't understand. Who are the centaur predecessors? Why does it matter that the words are usually hidden? What does it mean that I forced them to be revealed?"

Ronan reaches one long, slender finger down to the center of my chest and gently taps against the locket hidden beneath my shirt. "Every answer you seek lies here."

"Where? In the locket? In my heart? In this little bit of Rhea that's always a breath away from setting me on fire?"

Ronan gives no response but to hum a single note and trot back into the forest, letting the branches close silently over his hindquarters.

_Centaurs_, I mentally huff. I vow to take a piece of Hagrid's fruitcake back to Ronan one of these days. It'd be considered inexcusably rude for him not to try it, and I'd get loads of satisfaction watching him nearly dislocate his jaw in the attempt.

[A/N] I'm back! Nothing like a nearly 5,000-word chapter to ease back into things.

To my new readers – hello! Nice to meet you, and have fun slugging through the 90k words you've got before you catch up.

To the readers who were with me when I started this thing three years ago (yikes) – thanks


	29. Wide Awake On The Voyage Home

**Chapter Twenty-Nine: Wide Awake On The Voyage Home**

I spend all of Sunday cooped up in the library, trying to catch up on school assignments. My friends all wander through at one point or another to deliver food or help out for a bit; nearly everyone in the D.A. is behind in at least one subject, and a study group is as good a cover as any for some low-level rebellion planning. The Sixth and Fourth Years all have an Astronomy chart due before the Easter Holiday, so Colin Creevy and I, along with a decent number of the Fourth Year D.A. members, plan to be up on the Astronomy tower Monday night – we can't attend Hagrid's "Support Harry Potter" party, but we can at least keep an eye on it from afar.

Sitting across the table from Neville in mid-afternoon, I fight the overwhelming compulsion to tell him about Meg.

In the end, I decide to complete my long-overdue Dark Arts assignments. It's not as though I actually want to pass a class called "Introduction to the Dark Arts," but there's a particular non-vocal curse we've been learning that has a unique arm movement and I've seen Daphne trying to perfect the form in class – I might not want to be able to perform the spell, but if I can recognize it, at least I can defend myself.

It is still far, far too quiet in my dormitory. The room is so small now; just my bed, and a gaping hole in my heart where Meg's used to be. The tower's pretty good about producing a little trundle bed for Bailey when she comes up to spend the night, but she's becoming fast friends with the other Gryffindor First Year girls and isn't up here as often anymore.

* * *

A little after midnight, I bundle myself up in the comforter and take a seat on the ground in Fawkes' rookery. I prop a roll of parchment open against my knee and dip my quill into a little pot of ink, then pause. I came out here intending to write Charlie a fairly routine letter, but at this moment I feel like all of my emotions are about to come exploding out of my chest and flood onto the ground until there's nothing left inside me but cobwebs and empty space. So I write to him about that, instead.

_Dear Charlie,_

_ I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm sorry, I know that must sound terribly dramatic – I'm here at school, nice and safe, and you're all out there in the real world fighting a war – but it's the truth. It's just so exhausting and I feel so isolated from the rest of you. Every day I wake up and I'm not sure who in my family is still alive. We all read the obituaries in _The Daily_ Prophet at breakfast, hoping not to see familiar names, but I don't even know if the paper is reliable anymore. Your last letter was three weeks ago – what if you've died since then? _

_ What if everyone is dead? _

_ Meg is. Meg's dead. I told you about what Daphne did, but Snape told me the details earlier. They killed her when they replaced her with Daphne. She's been dead for months, and I didn't even know. What if that's happened to all of you? Mum and Dad, Harry and Ron and Hermione, Dean, Luna, Fred and George, Bill and Fleur, Percy, you, Lupin and Tonks? _

_Fenrir Greyback tried to kill me over the weekend. Or turn me into a werewolf. Don't worry, though, because I did some wonky ancient centaur magic and we're all safe – "we" being me and Luke, because did I mention that my good friend Luke is a werewolf and the son of Joseph and Arlene Bronte? Did I mention that I met Joseph Bronte? Did I mention that Hagrid's throwing some "Support Harry Potter" party tomorrow night and he's going to get himself killed? Did I mention that 99% of the time, I'm just a breath of bad news away from losing my mind?_

_ I don't know. It feels like we're losing. Is this what war always feels like? You lose the people you care about one by one, and it's like you're losing body parts until all you are is a hard, crumpled reflection of who you were before?_

_ Miss you,_

_ Ginny_

I cap the bottle of ink. Pig, recognizing the little _clink_ as his usual cue, pokes his head in to the rookery, but I wave him away. "Sorry, little buddy. There's no way I can send this letter. It's going into the fireplace. I'll write a real one tomorrow."

I stand, shaking life back into my knees. As I stretch my arms up overhead, the parchment is snatched from my fingers. I look up – Fawkes.

"Fawkes," I chide, wagging a finger at the phoenix perched on a branch just out of reach. "Give that back. It's not for sending, I just needed to get the thoughts down on paper."

Fawkes appraises me with one beady eye. He opens his wings – _they're huge, _I realize suddenly, _he's grown_ – to float down to me, but instead he disappears with a faint pop and I'm left with an arm outstretched to empty space.

* * *

Monday morning rolls in with a storm that raises the lake's water level by half a meter before lunch, then drifts off rapidly, leaving us a damp, grey afternoon. The entire school feels balanced on a precipice, holding its breath – we only have to make it through two days of school this week; the train home for the Easter holiday leaves Wednesday morning. Two days, and we get to breathe for a week. Two days.

I'm so worried about Hagrid's stupid party tonight that I risk detention to sneak down to his hut during dinner, but there's no dissuading him.

"I appreciate yer concern, Ginny, really I do, but I've made up me mind," he says, reaching over my head to tack up the corner of the "Boy Who Lived!" banner I was holding. "I aim ta throw this party and head fer the mountains."

"Someone's going to get hurt," I caution. "I don't think anyone's even coming, Hagrid, but someone – you – you're going to get hurt, and –."

"No' another word. We've had this talk already." He holds out his hand. "Goodbye, Ginny. Take care o' yerself."

I place my hand in his, and it looks comically small by comparison. "Bye, Hagrid."

* * *

I make my way up to the Astronomy tower with Natalie and the Creevy boys a little after 8 o'clock that night. Hagrid's party is due to start at 8:30, so I spend half an hour setting up my telescope, charting a little (I can't help noticing that Mars and Jupiter actually _are_ moving into opposition), and worrying myself sick. I'm caught up in tracking a comet path when Laura Madley, one of the Ravenclaw Fourth Years Luna – _Luna_, my gut wrenches painfully – introduced to the D.A. touches my elbow gently and extends a trembling finger to point across the grounds.

She didn't need to point. I can see it just fine.

Hagrid's hut is lit up like a Muggle carnival ride. Lights on the roof make a giant lightning bolt, and lights scattered across the ground pulse in time to the music I can just begin to hear drifting across the lawn. I squint through the deepening twilight, barely able to make out two dancing figures – one big and hulking, obviously Hagrid, and another, considerably smaller and slighter figure that I can't place.

"Bloody hell," one of the other Fourth Years near me breathes, and I snap around to see that he has his telescope pointed to Hagrid's hut. I mentally slap myself and wrench my own telescope around, frantically focusing the picture until I can identify the tiny little blonde person whirling around next to Hagrid.

My heart stills in my chest. _Bailey_.

I'm halfway to the door when a series of explosions, their noise only slightly lessened due to distance, rock across the grounds. The other students on the tower scream, and their collective cry is echoed by a roar like a wounded animal from below. I scramble to reset my telescope, but by the time I can drag the image back into focus, it's all over. Hagrid's dim shape is fast disappearing into the trees that lead to the mountains; there are Death Eaters pursuing him, but they'll never catch up. His hut is burning. And Bailey, unconscious, is being levitated back to the castle by Amycus Carrow.

I'm dimly aware that the other D.A. members on the roof are staring at me, looking for guidance, comfort, support, anything. Instead, I look at my watch. It blinks _8:32_ at me in blurry blue digits – blurry because I'm crying.

We only had to survive two days. We couldn't even last two minutes.

* * *

"Let this be a lesson to all of you," Snape says, standing in front of the Head Table in Great Hall with his hands crossed behind his back. "The time for games and childish leniency has passed."

I almost laugh at that – is that what the past months have been? games and leniency? – but I can't seem to make any noises other than the stifled, gasping sob that has taken up permanent residence in my chest. It's been less than an hour since the fiasco at Hagrid's, and the Heads of Houses have gathered us all in Great Hall to hear the pronouncement of Bailey's fate.

"Miss Norren will spend the remainder of the term in the castle dungeons," Snape continues. There's a gasp across the student body, but I find some small measure of relief – at least they aren't going to kill her. Yet. "This is punishment befitting the crime of allying oneself with or showing support to any of the following parties: Harry Potter. Hermione Granger. Remus Lupin. Kingsley Shacklebolt."

As Snape continues to list out the people who are routinely invited to my family's Christmas parties, I let my gaze drift along the Head Table. Amycus Carrow, looking positively delighted with this turn of events. Madame Hooch, her thin lips pressed into a tight line. Alecto Carrow, whispering something into Umbridge's ear that makes her sound that ridiculous, infuriating giggle. Professor McGonagall, sending a steely-eyed glare so powerful at the back of Snape's head that I'm surprised the grease on his hair doesn't start smoking. An empty seat where Hagrid belongs. Professor Flitwick, visible only as a tuft of white hair over the tabletop. Professor Slughorn, looking uncomfortable but resigned.

They're supposed to be our teachers. They're supposed to protect us.

A familiar heat sets up in my pocket. I shift casually to retrieve my D.A. Galleon and hold it under the table, sneaking a quick look to read the message – then looking again to confirm what I saw the first time.

_Tomorrow. 7pm. RoR._

I pick my head up and make quick eye contact with Neville. It's plain from his face that he didn't send the message, and I try to make it clear that I didn't, either. No one besides the two of us has called a meeting this year, and most of the D.A. members don't even know how to use the messaging system Hermione dreamt up.

It feels like a trap. But, then, everything feels like a trap these days.

* * *

I spend the night with horrible nightmares of Bailey being tortured in the dungeons. 7 o'clock comes painfully slowly the next day – we have a History of Magic exam, which I dreadfully fail, and the singing baby animals at the castle doors have been replaced by Dementors. I am absolutely ready to be done with this castle for a week by the time Neville and I steal away from dinner.

"It's a little extreme, don't you think?" Neville whispers in my ear as we pace back and forth outside the Room of Requirement. "Yes, they've got Bailey in the dungeons, but that doesn't actually make this a prison. We don't need prison guards here."

"I don't know, Nev," I say, stopping in my tracks as the door grows out of the wall. "Maybe we do. We're a rebellion, after all."

"We're a dozen kids, Ginny. We're not an army."

"We had this conversation at the beginning of the year, Neville. We're willing to fight, we know that we have to fight. So that's what we're going to do." Even as I say the words, I can hear that my heart isn't in them. It's difficult to stay motivated when you feel like you're the only ones fighting.

"A little more enthusiasm there wouldn't hurt, Gin," Luke says, walking up behind Neville. He nods toward the door. "Are we going in, or are you two planning on standing around out here gabbing about being the rebellion for the whole bloody school to hear?"

I look at my hand on the doorknob. "It could be a trap."

Luke nods. "Almost definitely."

"There could be Death Eaters inside," Neville contributes.

"Or Dementors," I add. "Apparently, we have Dementors at Hogwarts now."

"Definitely could be," Luke agrees. "So what are we waiting for?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Is this what you're like when you actually commit to something?"

Luke laughs, all white teeth and tan skin and for the briefest instant, everything is normal. "Oh, dear Ginevra. Just wait until you give me a project I can _really_ sink my teeth into." He flashes me another grin, puts his hand over mine, and pushes through into the room. I follow quickly, Neville right behind me, and I'm so caught up in trying to figure out if what Luke said was an intentional reference to him being a werewolf that it takes me a second to process who is standing in the middle of the D.A. members who arrived before us.

Professor McGonagall.

"Welcome," she says. "Please, everyone, take a seat – I cannot stay long."

The Room of Requirement seems to have prepared itself specifically for this purpose – significantly smaller than when we use it for training, it's now roughly the size of the living room at the Burrow and filled with low, squishy beanbags. We sink into them obediently.

"I'm sure the news of Miss Norren's situation is a cause of great distress for many of you," McGonagall begins. "It is of grave concern to myself and several other members of the faculty as well. I do not know this group's plans, and it was always Albus' belief that you should be allowed to govern yourselves and choose your own course of action."

She begins pacing, the _click _of her heels against the hardwood floors measuring out the seconds that are passing. "It is my belief, however, that the situation has escalated beyond what he anticipated. I am therefore here to implore you to take no further action where Miss Norren is concerned."

She holds up her hands to stem the barrage of protests that are immediately launched. "I understand your concern, and I will do everything in my power to see that she is taken care of during the holiday. I am hopeful that we will be able to negotiate her release after the break. But until then – please, students. The situation grows more severe than you may realize. The train to King's Cross Station leaves in just under twelve hours. Exercise restraint."

She sweeps away towards the door and the room erupts in side conversations.

"Professor!" I call, struggling out of my beanbag and chasing after her. She stops just shy of the door, pinching the bridge of her nose as she turns back to me. "How did you know about the Galleons? How'd you know how to use them?"

"My dear Miss Weasley," she sighs. "Who do you think gave Miss Granger the book on the encoding of magical messages?"

"Ginny!" Someone back in the beanbag cluster calls. I turn my head to see Luke waving me over, and the door swings shut behind me – McGonagall is gone.

"She's right," Neville is saying as I reclaim my green beanbag. "Even if we had time to put together a rescue plan before the train left – which we don't – it'd be too dangerous."

"This is insane," Michael counters. "Bailey is _eleven_. We can't leave her down in the dungeon for even another night, let alone a week while we're all at home with our families."

"She's probably being guarded by Dementors," Parvati reasons. "There's no way we could fight through them."

"Almost everyone in this group has a fully-formed Patronus!" Seamus argues. "Of course we can fight them!"

"The dungeons are huge," Padma chimes in. "We don't know where they're keeping her."

Luke speaks quietly, directly into my ear. "You have to say something."

I squirm around to face him, in a bright red beanbag directly adjacent to mine. "What?"

"You have to say something. You're the only one they'll listen to."

"I don't know what to tell them to do."

His brown eyes bore into me, demanding more of an answer.

"Of course I think we should rescue Bailey. She's just a kid, and she's a sweetheart, and the thought of her being down in the dungeons all alone?" A shudder runs through me as I remember the nightmares from the couple hours of sleep I managed to grab last night. "But McGonagall – and Neville – they're right, too. We don't have time to plan, and we don't know what we'd be up against."

He cocks his head to one side. "So what's it going to be? Follow your head, or follow your heart?"

_Is that really what it comes down to? My heart is a Weasley, through and through. I can't lose anyone else. They still don't know about Meg. What would Harry do? What would my father say?_

"We do nothing," I say quietly. I meet Luke's eyes.

He points to the group behind me, still arguing amongst themselves. "Don't tell me. Tell them."

I swivel around, clear my throat, and speak over the ruckus. "We do nothing."

Ten heads swing around to gape at me.

"I care about Bailey just as much as any of you. More than most of you – hell, Michael, you barely even knew her name until a week ago." I meet Michael's gaze and it is burning, accusing. I look away. "It kills me to say this. But McGonagall is right. She wouldn't have come here to warn us against it if there was even a chance we'd be successful. We just have to trust her. At least until after the holiday."

Nine heads shift away, resigned. I'm a little surprised that that's all it took – _a few words from me, and there's really no more arguing? _– but there's still one person with me locked dead in his sights.

I clear my throat again. "That's it for tonight. Everyone go back to your rooms and pack. We'll meet again after the holiday."

With a few grumbles and groans, the group begins to disperse. Michael, however, merely stands up and starts pacing. I motion for Neville and Luke to go on without me, then turn to face my ex-boyfriend.

"You don't just get to tell us what to do," he fumes abruptly. "You're not Harry."

I blink, taken aback. "I know I'm not. I never said I was. In fact, I'm pretty sure I explicitly said that I _wasn't_ him, or my brother, or Hermione, back on the first day."

"Okay, well that's...that's not the point."

I heave a giant sigh. Between the events of the past two days and the harrowing weekend in the woods with Luke, Greyback, and the centaurs, I've just about reached my limit for drama. "So what _is _the point?"

He stops pacing and stares straight at me. "The point is that Bailey Norren is eleven. She's eleven, and she trusts you, and she doesn't like beans on toast."

I rub the bridge of my nose, realize it reminds me of McGonagall, and stop. "Is that code for something?"

"I," he starts, but he lets all his breath escape him in a woosh and collapses into one of the beanbags again. "No. It's not code. I overheard her telling Dennis that she doesn't like beans on toast. Eliza doesn't, either."

I fold myself into the beanbag next to his. "Your little sister?"

He nods slowly, staring off into space. "She turns eleven in a few weeks. Should be starting here in autumn." He drops his face into his hands and groans.

"Hey." I drag one of his hands away from his face and lace my fingers through his. It feels good, comfortable, normal. "Eliza's not in the dungeon right now. Bailey is. She knew that she'd get in trouble for going to Hagrid's – I'm not saying that it's right, and I'm not saying that she has to get herself out of this mess because she got herself into it – but she knew there'd be consequences. When we're all back together and we know a little more, we can try to get her out. But in the meantime, honestly? The dungeons at Hogwarts are probably one of the safest places in world right now. It might not be a picnic, but she's got a better chance of making it to April than the rest of us."

He snorts. "You know, you're probably right? Merlin, what is the world coming to?"

"Nothing good, I can tell you that," I respond cheerfully. I get to my feet and pull him up after me. "Chin up, Corner. At least you didn't have to lose to me in Quidditch again this year."

He swings an arm around my neck and messes up my hair as we leave the room. "I guess it is comforting to know that Ravenclaw won't be dead last in House points. You lot don't stand a chance without Quidditch."

* * *

"Ginny. _Ginny._"

I wake up slowly, forcing the face – very close to mine – to swim into focus. Annie Markel, the Fifth Year prefect. "Whassamatter?"

"You have to get up."

"What?" My brain still isn't working, but there's full moonlight streaming in through the rookery. "Why? It's not time for the train yet."

She shrugs and pulls me out from under the comforter. "Dunno. McGonagall just woke me and Ryan. We're to get the other prefects and then bring the entire House down to Great Hall."

"Wonderful," I say, trying to slide back into bed. "So go get the prefects and pick me up last of the other students."

She grabs my hand. "No, Ginny – you're the Sixth Year girl prefect. You have to help."

At least this little piece of the puzzle finally snaps into place. I'm the only Sixth Year girl Gryffindor left. I'm prefect by default. Percy would be so proud.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Ryan, Annie, Colin, Neville, Parvati, and me have the entire Gryffindor contingent slumped over our table in Great Hall. We're the first House to have everyone present (I try not to notice that it's probably because we're the smallest House left), so while the other students trickle through the doors, Gryffindors rest their heads on the table or their neighbor's shoulder, yawning and wondering what's so important that we all have to be awake at four in the morning.

The Gryffindor faction of the D.A. are clustered around our prefects' end of the table. I scan the room and the door constantly, mentally checking off other members of the group as I see them. No one says it, but as the confusion of being woken up in the middle of the night wears off, a sense of dread starts to settle in – have we ever been woken up like this for something that _wasn't_ terrible?

Once all the students are present, the teachers file in and stand along the periphery of the room. I look for Professor McGonagall, but she's nowhere to be seen. Snape stalks in moments later, greasy and batlike and tired as ever, clapping his hands as he swoops toward the Head Table. The actual table there vanishes, leaving just the raised platform, onto which Snape vaults. He turns to face us and silence in the room is deafening.

"Good news, children," he announces. "We've decided to release Bailey Norren."

On cue, a side door behind the platform opens and, sure enough, Bailey stumbles out, supported by McGonagall. The room fills with whispers, and I'm halfway out of my seat before Neville's fingers close around my wrist and Luke's hand clamps down on my leg. Between the two of them, I am forced back onto the bench, so I settle for staring across the platform to her – her eyes meet mine and her face, though tearstained, cracks into a small, weak smile.

_She's alive. She's alive and mostly okay._

"I don't like this," Neville whispers.

"What are you talking about?" I demand. "They're letting her go."

"Yeah, but why?" Luke asks.

"Who _cares_?" I retort. Why aren't they as happy about this as I am? I crane around the room, looking for Michael – he, at least, should be appreciating this – but I can't find him anywhere at the Ravenclaw table. I tune in to the warning bells that have taken up a constant hum in the back of my mind. "Where's Michael?"

Before anyone can respond, Snape speaks again. "You may be wondering why Miss Norren is being released. She committed treason against our Dark Lord, so shouldn't she stay locked away, suffering for her crime?" Snape begins a slow pace across the length of the dais, and there's a distinct impression that he's enjoying the showmanship of this moment. "She should. But it has been decided that maintaining rule and order in this school is more important than keeping one idiotic girl imprisoned. And your teachers and I cannot enforce rule and order if you are going to keep staging rescue missions."

_Oh no. Oh Merlin, no_.

"Michael Corner of Ravenclaw was captured just hours ago in the midst of one of these ill-advised attempts," Snape continues. Another side door opens and Amycus Carrow drags Michael onto the platform by his hair. My heart jumps into my throat and then plummets into the pit of my stomach; Michael is struggling, but weakly, already bleeding and bruised in several places, and when Amycus releases him at the center of the platform he collapses to the floor and his head connects with a sickening _crack_. "In order to dissuade any of the rest of you from making rescue attempts to future prisoners, his punishment will be carried out now, in front of the whole school."

Snape stops his pacing. I shift my focal point from the rise and fall of Michael's chest – _he's alive, he's strong, he'll be fine, please Merlin let him be fine_ – and find that Snape is staring directly at me. "This is the punishment that will befall all who disobey me and the rule of our Dark Lord," he says, and although his voice is still magically magnified, I know that he's speaking directly to me. This is for my benefit. "And Bailey Norren's punishment will be knowing that she's the reason this happened."

"No," comes Bailey's voice, broken and sobbing as Snape steps across the platform opposite Michael and rolls back his sleeves. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean for this to happen, please don't, _please_ –!" She is struggling, trying to break free of McGonagall's restraining arms. I briefly lock eyes with McGonagall, and the disappointment I see there is staggering.

Michael struggles to his hands and knees, spits blood onto the wood. I catch his eye for just a moment, too, and he jerks his head toward the House hourglasses, where the Ravenclaw hourglass is nearly empty – making a joke about whose House will come in last place.

_This is my fault_. In that frozen instant, before Snape casts his first spell, Bailey screaming and pleading, Michael smiling a bloody, macabre grin, Luke and Neville's hands nearly cutting off my circulation, I know that it's true. I couldn't talk Hagrid out of the party, I couldn't keep Bailey from going, I couldn't keep Michael from trying to save her. I could have prevented all of this. But I didn't. _This is my fault. _

* * *

We are held in Great Hall for nearly two hours while Snape and the Carrows work through cycles of torture and forced healing by a House Elf. Michael, it seems, has a strong constitution – it takes him a long time to lose consciousness during each round, and the screams burn their way into your ears no matter how firmly you clamp your hands. Bailey, with her front row seat, keeps up a constant stream of moaned apologies.

We are released with just enough time to get to the Hogwarts Express. Our trunks, of course, meet us there magically, and a few students change out of their pajamas before we leave. I, like most, stay in the clothes I was wearing when I woke up – an old Weasley sweater of Bill's that Mum knitted a bunch of hieroglyphs into, ratty sweatpants, and shoes from two different pairs.

No one really speaks. It is, without a doubt, the quietest journey in the history of the Hogwarts Express. Dumbledore's Army clusters in a few cars toward the back of the train. Bailey and Michael both appear several hours into the ride, looking wrecked but not much worse for the wear, and we huddle around them, offering silent companionship. There are no words for what we need to express, so no one tries – we just sit near one another, noiselessly affirming the one thing we desperately need to know: we are _still here_.

It becomes too much for me. An hour out of London, I leave the group and find an empty compartment. I curl my legs up against my chest and stare sightlessly out the window as the trees that whip past gradually give way to buildings.

_This is my fault._

_._

_._

_._

[A/N] Another nice long one for you – now that I'm back to writing this, all the ideas are just flooding out of me at once. And you lovelies with your reviews (I just officially hit 100!) make me SO HAPPY. As usual, if you're logged in when you review, I'll PM you a response – anons/unlogged-in folks get shout-outs below.

-Hays6: Thanks for reading! I'm glad the kitten creeped you out – that was the plan.

-Inky: I came back! That's the part that matters, right? I'm completed obsessed with Ginny's mystical centaur powers and Greyback creeps the bejeezus out of me, so that bit really wrote itself. La la la, you'll find out about Mars and Jupiter soon enough, la la la.

-To everyone I missed during my extended hiatus – thank you for your reviews, I'm sorry I was such a delinquent, you're all shining stars of benevolence and wisdom, etc etc etc.

Housekeeping note – I once estimated 35 chapters for this. I'm now cranking that guess up to 45. I just. Have. So. Many. Thoughts.

"Wide Awake on the Voyage Home" is the title of a song by Liam Finn.


	30. Flight Of The Weasleys

**Chapter Thirty: Flight of the Weasleys**

Easter, much like Christmas, is a bleak affair. Fred and George aren't able to get away from the shop, Charlie's still in Romania, and Bill and Fleur are holed up in their cottage, so it's just me and Mum and Dad – and "Ron," still bumping around and moaning something awful. I do some half-hearted work on school assignments and help Mum with the cooking, but mostly I just sit around and wonder how things possibly got this bad. I am, however, starting to look forward to Evenstar. I still don't really understand what it is besides a giant, bi-annual centaur celebration, but the bit of Rhea nestled next to my heart is burning a little brighter than usual, counting down the days until April 13.

Easter Sunday passes in relative quiet. The three of us make a small dinner and toast to our missing friends. I'm helping Mum marshal the dishes into washing themselves when a piercing, chattering ringing shoots through the house. I clap my hands over my ears, dropping a small handful of utensils in the process.

"What the bloody hell is that?" I shout over the noise. "Are we under attack?"

"Language, Ginevra!" Mum snaps, looking positively scandalized. Dad's face, however, clears out of its confused scrunch.

"It's the fellytone!" He shouts, scampering to the linen closet. He throws a pile of clean towels to the ground ("Now, _really_," Mum sighs) and digs out a bright red, plastic contraption held together more by tape and wires than anything else. I vaguely remember Dad excitedly bringing it home a few years back and Ron trying to use it to get in touch with Harry over one summer – it involved rather a lot of shouting.

The shouting hasn't changed, apparently, as Dad picks up part of the device, holds it at away from his head at arms' length, and shouts, "HELLO? HELLO? YES – THIS IS ARTHUR WEASLEY!"

A tinny mutter comes out of the device, and we all strain to hear it.

"WHAT? WHAT? THIS IS ARTHUR WEASLEY – PLEASE SPEAK UP!"

"Dad, you're going to have to put it close to – oh, for Merlin's sake," I say, walking to him and taking the device. I hold an end of it to my ear and speak calmly. "Hello? This is Ginny Weasley."

"Ginny!"

"Charlie!"

"Hey, little sister! What was all that yelling about?"

"I think Dad still doesn't know how to use the telephone," I say, rolling my eyes. "He apparently wasn't listening when Hermione explained."

"I was, too!" Dad exclaims.

"Were not," Charlie, Mum, and I chorus. I giggle into the phone.

"You lot have a Muggle telephone at the habitat?" I ask.

"No, I hiked to the nearest Muggle town and borrowed one from a friendly sloshed chap," he says. "I can't talk long, just wanted to give you all my love on the holiday."

"Couldn't make it back, huh?"

"International travel's a bit dodgy right now, Gin. I'm safer staying here for the time being. Anyway, listen – are you okay?"

"What?" I turn to my parents, both of whom are still watching me expectantly. "Why don't the two of you keep cleaning up, and I'll pass Charlie to you in a minute?"

They obediently turn back to the dishes. Charlie continues speaking in my ear. "I got your letter. I've got to tell you, I haven't had mail by phoenix in, well, ever."

I sigh and talk quietly. "You weren't supposed to see it. I just wanted to get the words out, and I was going to burn it, but Fawkes took it before I could."

"I'm sorry about Meg."

"Yeah." I can feel tears prickling at the back of my eyes. "I'm going to give you over to Mum now, okay? Love you, Happy Easter, try to come home over the summer?"

"Wait, Gin -!" I hand the phone to my expectant mother, cutting him off, and busy myself with a particularly stubborn butter dish. _Don't think about Meg. Don't think about Luna. Don't think about any of them, just…clean. _

Before Mum's done speaking to Charlie, I have myself back under control.

* * *

I spend most of Monday traipsing around the house, gathering my things, getting ready to head back to Hogwarts the next morning. It's amazing how the entire contents of my trunk have managed to explode into every nook and cranny of the Burrow, although I've only been here a few days. I drag my feet, nervous about what I'll find when I get back to the castle, so I'm still packing late into the night, after Mum and Dad have gone to bed.

When the silver lynx appears, I'm the only one awake to receive it. I see it lingering on the threshold of my bedroom, and every awful memory of Bill and Fleur's wedding comes rushing back at once.

"What…what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.

"_Harry, Ron, and Hermione have been captured. Your brother's alliance with Harry Potter is no longer secret. Your family is in danger." _

The lynx disappears, and for a moment I am paralyzed, but a rush of adrenaline surges through my veins and I skid down the stairs to my parents' room, screaming for them to wake up.

Dad meets me in the hallway, rumpled from sleep. "What's all the racket?"

"Message from Shacklebolt," I gasp, rubbing an elbow I banged into a wall on the way. "They've been captured – Harry, Ron, Hermione. They know Ron's with Harry – we're not safe."

Dad blinks at me for a second, then jolts into motion. "Finish packing. We are leaving in two minutes. MOLLY! THE BAGS!"

_What bags? _I wonder as I throw myself back up the stairs. I chuck things into my trunk from all angles, and when it's stuffed, I do a quick whirl in place, checking for anything I've missed. I heave my window open and haul Fawkes' roost and Pig's cage over to the desk.

"You have to go," I say, trying to push them out the window. "It's not safe here – you'll find me when we're somewhere else, but you have to go, and I can't take the two of you, only Arnold – where's Arnold?"

As if in answer, Fawkes swoops by me and gathers Arnold up by some of his stomach fluff. Arnold makes a disgruntled whirring sound, but doesn't appear too distressed. Fawkes hops back over to the windowsill.

"Are you sure?" I ask, wringing my hands. "I don't know when I'll see you again, I don't know how long you'll have to look after him."

Fawkes chirrups and flies out the window, batting me in the head with a wing on the way. Pig gives my finger a nip and follows, flapping three times as rapidly to keep up.

At that moment, there is a resounding crash from the kitchen. I stifle a scream and drop to the floor – _could Death Eaters be here already? _ - but an instant later, a familiar voice is yelling up the stairs.

"Who the bloody hell put this table here?" Bill roars. "Mum, Dad, Ginny, we have to go _now_ – they caught Ron with Harry!"

I literally throw my trunk down the stairs, narrowly avoiding a disastrous collision with Bill on his way up. Mum and Dad clamber out of their bedroom, packed bags thrown over their shoulders and coats buttoned over pajamas.

I eye their bags suspiciously. "You were expecting this?"

Dad pulls Bill into a one-armed hug. "We're the biggest family of blood traitors in history, Ginny. It was bound to happen."

Bill hugs Mum and me in quick succession. "Where will you go?"

"Muriel's is protected," Dad says. "I'm the Secret-Keeper. Put a Fidelius Charm on the cottage as soon as you get back, do you hear me?"

I'm in awe of my dad at moments like this. He is so often scatter-brained, but the second his family is in danger, he's one of the steadiest, most reliable men I've ever met.

"I will," Bill promises. He hugs us each again, fiercely this time, and then a series of small explosions starts up outside.

"ARTHUR WEASLEY. MOLLY WEASLEY. GINEVRA WEASLEY. YOUR FAMILY IS ACCUSED OF HAVING IMPROPER ALLIANCES WITH CATEGORY ONE PUBLIC ENEMIES." A magically enhanced voice booms through the house, chilling me to the bone.

Mum gives Bill one last kiss on the cheek. "Take care of yourself."

"You do the same," Bill says, and Disapparates. Dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, I wind my fingers into the pocket of his coat, and we turn tightly on the spot.

My ears pop and we're looking at Aunt Muriel's country mansion. I've been here only once before, when I was very small, but it looks just as I remember: huge, ever-so-slightly rundown, and half hidden in the woods. Dad sprints to the door and throws it open, revealing a very perturbed Aunt Muriel. Dad pushes Mum and me through the door, then Disapparates again without a word.

"Molly! Ginny! Where's he off to?" Aunt Muriel demands. I look up at Mum, but she's white as the Bloody Baron and seems to be having a hard time breathing.

"Fred and George," I guess, helping Mum sit down on a bench in the entryway. "If Dad's the Secret-Keeper, they won't be able to find this place or get in without him bringing them."

Aunt Muriel's face wrinkles and smooths several times at the mention of Dad being the Secret-Keeper. "So it's happened, then. We've been found out."

"They caught Ron and Hermione with Harry," I explain.

The three of us are still standing in the open doorway, staring out into the darkness, a when Fred, George, and Dad pop out of thin air and hurry towards the house.

"Really, ladies," Fred says, folding me into his lanky arms as George does the same to Mum, "Fidelius only works if you keep the door _closed_."

* * *

Hours later – nearly three in the morning, by my watch – only Fred, George, and I are still awake, sitting around a fireplace in one of Aunt Muriel's living rooms. We fell silent hours ago, but sleep is out of the question. My mind plays a constant loop of horrible images – I've seen (and lived) what our new leadership does to those who break the rules, and we've all been students up until this point. Now that we're outlaws, the consequences are surely immeasurably worse.

The three of us all reach for our pockets at the same time, and we laugh as each produces a D.A. Galleon, little letters shining a dim red in the firelight.

_Trio captured. Anyone know if Ws are safe? –NL_

"Oh, Neville," I sigh. I quickly send back _Ws safe, no news on trio. – GW_.

Almost immediately, the coin flips to a new message: _Luna and Dean safe. –LL_

"WHAT?" I shriek, jolting up out of my armchair. At the same moment, a silvery wolf-like Patronus skids into the room.

"Luke?" I gasp, my brain spinning in several directions at once. As soon as the name is out of my mouth, though, I know it's not him – this wolf is smaller in stature, less wolf-y and more Labrador-y. It speaks with Bill's voice.

"_Luna Lovegood, Dean Thomas, Garrick Ollivander, and the goblin Griphook were just delivered to Shell Cottage by Dobby. They're in rough shape, but they're okay. They say Harry and Ron are trying an escape, but they have to save Hermione first. Stay here so I can find you again, hold on - ." _

The Patronus dematerializes, but another wolf Patronus darts into the room at once. This one looks more like Luke's, but it's still not him – Lupin.

"_Fidelius Charm up at Dora's parents," _it says. "_All safe here – send word when you can." _

Lupin's wolf disappears. I let my legs give out and collapse back into the armchair. "Bloody hell."

"No kidding," Fred echoes weakly.

"I'm going to wake Mum and Dad," George says after a minute. He heads for the door, but has to leap out of the way of Bill's Patronus, back with another message.

"_Ron, Harry, and Hermione are here," _it pants, like it ran the distance between Bill's and Aunt Muriel's. "_They escaped. We lost Dobby, but everyone else is safe." _

Our cheers of elation and cries of mourning for Dobby are enough to rouse our parents and Aunt Muriel. Dad sends Patronus messages to Lupin and Bill while Luna and I give the best updates we can to the rest of the D.A. given the limit to how many words you can fit on a Galleon.

* * *

"So. What's next?" George asks. The six of us sit around Aunt Muriel's dining room table, blinking owlishly in the just-breaking rays of dawn, sipping cups of strong tea. Another hellish night gives way to a dim, grey morning.

"Well," I say, "I'm due on the Hogwarts Express in two hours."

"Absolutely not," my parents say together.

"You'd be arrested the minute you got to King's Cross Platform," Mum continues.

"We're officially friends of Public Enemy Number One," Fred says, looking overly solemn. "There's a joke in there somewhere."

"Not the time, George!" Mum shrieks.

"I'm Fred."

"_I'm _Fred."

"I'm a _student_," I protest. "I can't just not go back to school! I know that it'd be dangerous, I understand that, I do, but -."

"Not dangerous, _suicidal_," Dad interrupts.

"Not suicidal, _idiotic_."

"Not idiotic, positively hare-brained."

"Not hare-brained, rabbit-footed."

"FRED! GEORGE!"

"Children, _please_," Aunt Muriel sighs.

"I am not a child!" I shout, slamming a palm flat against the table. "I may be young, but I stopped be a child when they were captured. I stopped being a child when Michael was tortured in front of the entire school for trying to free an eleven-year old from the dungeons. When Meg died, when Luna was kidnapped, when I had to watch a Third Year get whipped until she couldn't even cry anymore, when Bill and Fleur's wedding exploded. When Dumbledore died. When Cedric Diggory died. When a giant snake roamed the halls, Petrifying students." I look each member of my family in the eye in turn. "I know you think we're just students. Just children. That we don't understand what's really going on. But believe me, not one at Hogwarts has been a _child_ in years."

There's a moment of stunned silence. I take deep, steadying breaths, trying to calm the Rhea-flame next to my heart that has flared up dangerously. I'm going to Grow the trees from the woods straight through Aunt Muriel's parlor windows if I'm not careful.

"You're safer here, Ginny," Dad says gently.

"And what about every other student who's going to get on that train in two hours? They need me. I have a job to do."

"Why?" Fred asks.

"What?" I sigh, exasperated.

"Why is it your job?"

"Because…because…because it was Harry's. It was Harry's job, and Hermione's, and Ron's. But they have a different job to do now. So this one falls to me. What happened to Michael and Bailey and Hagrid – it's my fault. I can't sit safely in this house while everyone else is still fighting back at school."

There are confused looks on my family's faces – they don't know what I mean about Michael, Bailey, and Hagrid. They didn't know about Meg, either. I can't bring myself to explain, and I can tell that I'm not winning this particular argument. Not yet, anyway. So I head for the door.

I pause halfway through the doorframe. "You know, all those examples I gave – that's when anyone else could have stopped being a child. Grown up. That's when it could have become real for everyone else. But I know exactly – _exactly_ – when it happened for me."

"Oh?" Mum prompts. There is tension in her shoulders, between her eyes, in her tightly knotted fingers.

"When I was eleven years old, Lucius Malfoy slipped a blank diary into my cauldron at Diagon Alley." My mother's hands still. "That's when I stopped being a child. Carrying the Dark Lord around inside your head for a few months does wonders for maturity."

.

.

.

[A/N] Sorry for the delay, folks! I'm getting into that part of the story where I have to fact-check myself against Deathly Hallows pretty frequently, so it's slow going. **On that note, I will soon be diverging from canon**. Not in a huge way, but the differences you may notice in the next several chapters are 100% intentional – if they both you a lot, I'm happy to chat about them over PM

-Guest [ch9]: Both are very good guesses! Welcome to the party; I hope you keep reading!

-Anette [ch13]: Yeeeeeee thank you

-Isa [ch3]: I know I changed her named at one point and didn't go back and make updates everywhere, but once I finish the entire story I plan on going back and editing each chapter for stuff like grammar and names and such. Thanks for catching it!

-Ocean's Abyss: I can't respond to your review BUT thank you ever so much for reading, and my heart hurts whenever I write mean!Snape, but he's just such an outstanding character that I can't help myself.

YOU ARE ALL THE VERY VERY BEST.


End file.
